Children of the Pebble
by Clinesterton Beademung
Summary: Vash, Meryl and Milly go home and make new lives for themselves. Will they succeed? Can the children of the pebble ever go home again? Vash x Meryl
1. Goodbye, Vash the Stampede

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

clinestertonbeademung-at-hotmail-dot-com

Prologue – Goodbye, Vash the Stampede

* * *

Fill the glass. Raise it. 

Part the lips. Tilt the head back.

Flick the wrist.

In a dark corner of a nowhere town's saloon, beyond the bright edge of a whirlwind of song and celebration, Meryl Stryfe coughed at the outrage the whiskey committed on her parched throat. Cigar fumes irritated her eyes and lungs, permeated her hair and clothing, and blended with the omnipresent reek of alcohol sweat. All around her jubilant townspeople pickled their brains with proficient skill. How Milly or anyone else could do this to herself was beyond Meryl's understanding.

Meryl poured another shot of the December City sipping whiskey she'd hounded the bartender for an hour to find. Getting drunk meant getting drunk in style and she wasn't about to settle for the Plant-waste popskull these hayseeds were sucking down. That round, hairy chiseler of a barkeep had charged her thirty double dollars, half a day of Milly's wages, for the only bottle in town.

"—largest in the territory—"

"—about LR? What if that commotion spreads—"

"—warn't him, no one's tetched 'nuff t' take a bullet fer—"

"—government pays double for natural water—"

"—old coot, she's sitting right over there—"

"—Feds'll send us a marshal, keep things—"

"—best if we all just keep our mouths shut about it—"

"—not asking her, just what I heard, so let her—"

"—leaving? Can't say I'd be sorry to see 'em—"

Meryl drained her glass in a single motion and slapped it on the table. She winced at the fire in her throat, blinked at the tears in her eyes.

Ingrates. Milly had all but dug the damn well herself for Federal minimum. Waiting tables for tips Meryl wouldn't have offered a street urchin running a lemonade stand hadn't added much to their finances, either. All so she and Milly could keep what remained of their travel money and leave this fleabite town behind, forever grateful to its generous citizens for the privilege of letting Vash live.

The neck of the green glass bottle chattered on the lip of Meryl's glass. Whiskey tears dribbled into the stained felt.

Seeing Milly happy again was a joy to behold, like an old friend long missed, and if Meryl's pleasure in her junior partner's new lease on life was tainted by the sense that Milly was pushing herself into it, Meryl had no inclination to add her own pressure and let Milly be shattered. In that moment, awash in the baptism of—what was the word?—rain, yes, the rain Milly and her colleagues freed from its underground prison, all pretense was gone, washed away, lost to the thirsty earth. Meryl basked in her friend's high spirits and dared to hope.

And just like that, there he was.

Breathless with pleasure at the smiling, waving, living sight of him she'd run to him, ready to go nuts on him as Milly put it, ready to jump into his arms and tell him everything, but he'd been carrying something. Someone.

A raucous cheer roiled the saloon's smoky air. The dance was over. Meryl poured another drink.

Until she and Milly resigned they were still Bernardelli agents and they were still on assignment. Whatever pains and sacrifices they'd suffered had been endured in the line of duty. Milly had to understand this. Indeed, her junior partner had exemplified her understanding on the occasion of her recent loss and beyond. It wasn't as if Meryl didn't appreciate the tipped balance of obligation between them.

Still a job, damn it. She and Milly were agents representing the interests of another and following Vash the Stampede was their primary responsibility. That's all. Nothing else. No regrets, no apologies. No words of parting or of reunion. It was our duty, Milly. Every assignment has to end, sometime. I have to let him go, you see that, don't you? Please tell me you understand. Please…

When Meryl lifted her forehead from her arm the bottle of whiskey lay on its side, pouring its contents across the table and onto the floor. Meryl tightened her open hand on the bottle's neck and set it upright. Milly paid so much for this. Be a shame to let it go to waste.

Meryl pushed back her chair, stood and corked the bottle. She followed the edge of the joyous storm to the swinging doors.

Dallons of puddled water in the street lent the air a chill unusual for a town so close to the equator. Drunken louts the bouncers had thrown from the saloon continued their fights in the mud, swinging the slow-motion punches of the inebriated.

One of the combatants whirled under the impact of such a blow and fell to his knees in front of Meryl.

"Evenin, lil lady," said the man, doffing his hat. Streams of muddy water flowed over his face. His broken smile shone from his filthy face until his eyes lost focus and he tipped over to plop face down in the mire.

Meryl dodged the splash, amused at the unwitting flattery. It wasn't often she had men falling at her feet. At least the sheriff would give the poor pathetic fellow a warm place to sleep.

Milly sat on the front steps of their borrowed house, all but invisible in her gray work clothes. Meryl pointed at the hard hat dangling from the back of the rocking chair.

"Not a permanent career change for you, I take it," she said. Milly scooted over and made room for Meryl on the step.

"I'm not so sure I would mind digging wells for the rest of my life," Milly said. "But I can't stay here." The creak and crack of wood and rope under stress came from behind the house. "I don't think Mister Vash wants to stay here, either."

Meryl sat beside Milly and held the bottle on the step between her feet.

"He's talked to you?" Meryl said.

"I asked him what was wrong. He said he needed some time alone and so did you. I think I've circled this town about twenty times."

"Be glad you did. I haven't been much company lately. Nor has anyone else." Bastards. They could all go soak their heads and drown themselves in their brand new well.

"Did you hear anything at the saloon?" Milly said.

"No one believes it's him. What have you heard?"

"Not a word. The buzzards at the town dump weren't much company, either."

"Sorry. Stupid question." She handed the bottle to Milly. "Here. And thank you." Milly took it and frowned.

"You're welcome, Meryl, but I didn't—"

"Yes you did. I'll pay you back when we get home, okay?"

"Uh…okay." Milly stood, stepped up to the porch. "So, you want to come inside and have a last drink with me?"

"No, thanks, I've had enough." Maybe one too many, if the buzzing noise in her head was any indication. "This isn't our last ride into the sunset, you know. There'll be other assignments waiting for us when we get home. You know, when we get back to the office."

Milly looked down at her. Meryl picked at a fingernail.

"Gosh, I really am looking forward to it, now that I think about it. A cup of coffee at Jitter's sounds perfect—"

"Talk to him, Meryl," Milly said. Meryl shot to her feet.

"Talk to him! As if I have anything to say to that insensitive broomheaded—"

Milly patted Meryl's shoulder. "I saw it too. He'll understand, Meryl."

"Understand what? Milly—"

"Just talk to him." Milly went inside and vanished into the gloom.

A breeze moaned through the louvers of the half open door. Meryl's skin rose in goosebumps. Her cloak hung on a peg beside the doorway.

Meryl slammed the door shut. She returned to her place on the step and hugged herself against the cold.

Dusk gave way to night and Meryl yawned in welcome. The agreeable alcohol static in her mind lulled her chin onto the palm of her hand, led her elbow onto her knee. Whatever Vash was doing he was taking his time about it.

A falling star wounded the sky. Another. And another, not stars at all of course just crumbs of rock and metal burning up in the atmosphere, nothing more than burning garbage and how do you feel when you burn your garbage wonderful because everyone was saved with two shots left and the thing was kneeling in the street a helpless stray dog how grand to feel superior and all she had to do was go to the bedroom and open the door—

Pry open its mouth. Force the derringer in.

Draw the hammer back.

Pull the trigger.

Meryl's elbow slipped. Dizziness whirled at the edge of her vision as she caught herself against the steps. A nausea bubble rose from her stomach and burst in her chest.

"Meryl?"

She turned at the question, blinked at the yellow light around her, swallowed the acid on her tongue. The doorway framed a familiar masculine silhouette. She tottered to her feet.

"We're going for a walk, Vash. Come on." Meryl jumped down the steps and crossed the street. Mud sucked at her boots until she reached the alley between the First Independent Bank and the Loving Arms Hotel. Vash had spoiled her night vision and she banged her knee on a trashcan, startling a cat that darted between her feet and made her stumble. At the trail head she tripped on a stone and hit the ground on her hands.

Meryl cursed, picking flecks of gravel from her palms. Continue up the trail without a flashlight or a lantern and—just for fun—let Vash find her sprawled on the ground, unconscious and bleeding. What a great idea. Now all she had to do was stand here like an idiot until he followed her.

Meryl relaxed when a flashlight beam flickered against the obstacle course alley's walls and grew to a ragged ellipse that approached until it touched her feet. Hating herself for it she exaggerated the pain in her knee, affecting a limp.

"It's a moonless night," Vash said. "Here." He handed her the flashlight and draped a folded blanket over her shoulders. "Climbing this trail in the dark would've been dangerous."

"Tell me about it." Vash pointed the light at the trail. His footsteps crunched on gravel. Meryl didn't move. The knucklehead hadn't noticed she was hurt, even if she were pretending. The crunching stopped.

"What's wrong?"

Meryl crossed her arms. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Huh? Like what?"

"Like how to be a—oh, never mind." She took his right arm, rested one hand in the crook of his elbow, wrapped the other around the taut muscle above it. "The least you could do is help an injured lady up this rough trail."

"Sorry. I didn't think you were that hurt. In fact, you looked like you were faking it."

"Don't even start, Mister Humanoid Typhoon. You're not going to try anything funny, are you?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"You'd better not. Just because I was glad to see you safe and sound doesn't mean you can get fresh with me, got it?"

"Yes, Meryl."

"Good." She patted his arm. If that wasn't plain enough for him, he really was an idiot.

At the top Meryl cleared a spot and knelt. Vash sat beside her and when he turned off the flashlight Meryl was struck blind. Except for the pale glow in the saloon windows behind them, no city lights shone anywhere within the horizon's tattered circle. The bluff and the world had become a void.

Meryl waited, uneasy for the first time in Vash's silent presence. This was him, the real Vash, as he was now. She'd known it ever since New Oregon in the calm aftermath of their chaotic reunion, tending his hurt while the day faded to night, until Milly's discreet coughing made an end to the magic. This was him, but the spell was broken.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" she said.

"Tonight. I've been waiting for a chance to tell you."

Meryl clenched her hands until her knuckles cracked.

"You're cold," she said.

"I don't mean to be."

"No, I—I mean, it's cold out here. You must be freezing."

"I'm okay."

"No you're not." Meryl rose on her knees, let the blanket fall open and wrapped one edge around his shoulders. "Hypothermia kills, right?"

"You're the one who's shivering."

"Look, never mind that, okay? Just remember to keep your hands to yourself." Meryl held the ends of the blanket together. The temperature rose but she didn't stop shaking. The air was warmer this far away from the village but the night promised to be a chilly one. Vash wasn't helping.

Meryl scooted closer to him.

"So…on the first evening a pebble…from somewhere out of nowhere…falls upon the dreaming world."

That song must be a thousand years old, Meryl thought, surprised to find herself singing at all, as if the composer's spirit had entered her body and used her voice. All she knew, all anyone knew, was that it was written on Earth.

On a night like this, Meryl realized as another meteor burned and died. On the edge of despair, this was a night and a world to hope.

"So…"

Meryl followed the deep scar on his hand with her finger.

"On the second celestial evening…"

She stroked his forearm, hard and warm as cast bronze.

"All the children of the pebble…"

Life and promise pulsed under the smooth expanse of his chest.

"Joined hands…"

But metal can be cold, so very cold.

"And composed a—I can't do this." Meryl rose and let the blanket slip from her shoulders. She clapped her arms around her body.

"Meryl, wait."

"Why? I can't just sit there and make a fool of myself, and that's all I'm doing." Meryl kicked at a rock and stumbled. "Vash, I have so much to tell you, but now…" She paced in a circle, heedless of the night.

"Please watch where you're going."

"Oh, I know, you're probably thinking about all those women you can grope and flirt with now that you're free of me. Free of that annoying little insurance girl at last. Isn't that right?"

"Why would I be free of you?"

Meryl threw up her hands.

"Well, don't you want to be? You've done nothing but ignore me today, and tomorrow you'll run off with…with—Vash, you once asked me to make a choice. I've been trying to tell you I made that choice the minute you left to go after him—that monster—"

A heavy sigh. "That's why I have to leave."

"You don't say. What were you expecting, teary-eyed adoration? Maybe me falling at your feet?" Meryl jabbed a finger at darkness. "No, you were the one who turned your back on me. You were the one who walked past me without a single word and left me to stand there in the street like a fool. You were the one who gave me the silent treatment, remember?"

"And you can't think of a reason?"

"So—so I wasn't exactly thrilled out of my mind to see Knives. What did you expect? Do you blame me?"

"Knives isn't safe here. That's all I'm going to say."

"You're goddamn right he isn't safe here. He's killed millions of people, Vash. Millions! You told me that yourself. How could any rational person not want him dead, knowing that? Take care of him? Let me save you the trouble and just shoot him in the knees and drag him into the desert to rot, or shoot him through both eyes and let the sand roaches have him, assuming they're not that picky, or maybe I should just walk back to the house and spare him all that pain with a single bullet!"

"You wouldn't be the first to want that."

"When you went to July, remember, when you went to find a relative of this Rem of yours, only to find Knives had killed him? Well how many of those people he murdered would've been my relatives, or Milly's relatives? How many relatives and friends will we never meet and love and learn from because they were killed before they were born?"

"I don't know," Vash said. Exasperation rose in his voice. "I don't know, I can't answer that but please, at least listen to me." Meryl felt his hands on her shoulders.

"Leave me alone." Meryl twisted and jerked away from him. "Vash, those people came only God knows how far to start a new life away from Earth. They left it so far behind—"

"Meryl, watch where you're—"

"That no one knows where it is anymore. They did it—"

"—going, you're getting too close to—"

"—believing they had a chance—"

"—the edge. Meryl, stop."

"—only they never did."

"Don't move."

"And it's all because of—"

"I said don't move!"

Meryl froze, shocked from her fury by the authority in his voice. A breeze floated up her legs. One foot balanced on a pointed stone. She moved her other foot and the edge of the bluff crumbled under her toe. The soft echo of finality was a long time returning.

"Vash…help…"

"I'm behind you, coming closer, just stay still."

"Vash…I…"

"Right behind you now, reaching my arm around you…gotcha!"

Vash jerked her backward. Her legs lost their strength and she sagged to the ground. He released the pressure on her waist.

"Vash…I'm so sorry," she said, her voice hoarse.

"Don't apologize."

She grabbed his shirt and wadded the fabric in her fists.

"I've ruined everything. How can you not hate me after that?"

"How could I? Hate destroys. That's all it does."

"Promise me, Vash," she said. "Promise me that wherever you take him he can never escape. Never, you understand?"

"I promise, Meryl. I give you my word."

Meryl nodded. One good man's promise would have to be enough.

"You know, when Milly said I should go nuts on you, I don't think this is what she had in mind."

"I have a feeling she's smarter than both of us."

"I have a feeling you're right."

Meryl stood and flipped the blanket around his shoulders. Light from the distant saloon windows spilled into the street and onto the men who struggled in the mud. She now understood Milly's appreciation for the heady warmth that had filled her, understood how men and women could abandon civility and sanity to know such heat again and again.

"I didn't drag you up here to play damsel in distress, you know," she said.

"Good. I was getting tired of that game."

Meryl had never consumed so much alcohol so fast in one sitting, so perhaps it was the alcohol that distorted her memories, or perhaps it wasn't the booze at all, but here in the cool, dark present the panting, gasping pleasure of seeing him again overwhelmed her, only he was smiling, welcoming, real, alone.

Caress his cheek. Cup his face in her hands.

Part the lips. Tilt the head back.

"Wow," Vash said.

"Was that good?"

"Better than a shot of—what's so funny?"

"Nothing, broomhead."

"Hey, watch the hair."

"I don't think it's ever been this spiky before."

"At least I've discovered a way to keep you quiet."

"Yeah? You just try it, Mister Va—mm. Mhmm…" Meryl allowed Vash to lower her body until she was seated sidesaddle on his thigh. She was going to owe Milly more than thirty double dollars when this was over.

When this was over. Meryl liked the sound of that. With luck, Vash the Stampede would die forever once they returned to December. Funny, now that Meryl thought about it. The fake final report had been Milly's idea, too. That girl wouldn't lie to save her soul.

Meryl slid from Vash's leg onto the ground. She lay back, guided by Vash's arm. When Meryl squeezed her thighs together and caught Vash's leg between her knees, it occurred to Meryl that it might be her own soul that would need saving. Tomorrow, Vash would be gone.

"Vash…wait. No. Stop."

"What's wrong? Am I hurting you?"

"No. No, you're not hurting me."

"Then what is it? I'm a little confused here."

"Try taking your hand out from under my dress." Vash obeyed. Meryl laced her top closed. The swift sound of a zipper told her how close she'd come to another kind of ledge.

"Vash…I'm sorry."

"So am I," he said.

"Don't say it like that."

"Hey, don't you worry about me. Three hours under a cold shower and I'll be fine."

"Would you just stop? This is no picnic for me, either." Meryl smoothed her skirt over her thighs. She leaned forward, laced her fingers behind Vash's neck, and put her lips close to his ear. "Not here. Not like this."

"One night stands aren't my thing, either, insurance girl. A two or three night stand, maybe, but not a one—ow! What was that for?"

"That's for all the girls you're going to flirt with while you're gone. Now help me with this blanket."

When the blanket was folded, Vash turned on the flashlight.

"Here, hold this," he said.

"Why? Can't a big strong man like you carry a little—what! What on earth are you doing?"

"You're hurt, aren't you?"

"Vash, you put me down right this instant before I—"

"Can't have an injured lady walk down this dangerous trail by herself, now can I?"

A protest formed on Meryl's lips but it gave way to a happy laugh when Vash spun her around. At the saloon another dance roared into life. When they reached the house Vash lowered her onto the porch.

"I will see you again, won't I?" she said, daring to hope.

"Given our history, insurance girl, I think it's a cast iron certainty."

Meryl tugged on his shirt and pulled him closer. She explained Milly's plan to submit a false final report.

"And if you make me a liar I'll shoot you myself, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear."

Meryl leaned her forehead on his chest. "I'm no good at goodbye," she said.

"Then don't say it."

Meryl let Vash put his arms around her. His body was warm, but when it was plain that she and Vash could freeze to death standing on the porch, Meryl tiptoed up for a final chaste kiss and entered the house without fear. She dressed for bed and curled up under her blankets.

"Goodbye, Vash the Stampede," she said, and slept.

---

Outside the girls' bedroom door, a legendary outlaw stood his own lonely vigil to the sound of Milly's quiet crying.

Vash crossed his arms and yawned. While it was possible Milly was weeping in her sleep Vash couldn't risk waking her. He didn't dare move his brother unless both the girls were fully unconscious. He'd told Meryl too much and she'd wanted to kill Knives in cold blood. That alone justified the journey he was about to take.

"But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep." Generations of humankind would live and die on this planet before it became the wonderland that old Earth poet had known in verity and in verse. The few geo-Plants that survived the Fall, undistracted by their siblings' need to provide water, food, and energy, worked with all their might, but only the great-great-great grandchildren of those who were themselves children would see this world as a remote simulacrum of the planet that nurtured their race.

Damn you, Knives. If not for you this world would be an Eden by now.

Not for us, whispered Knives's mind, as if from the bottom of a dry, dead well. Not for us. For themselves.

Time was short. Vash pressed his ear to the door. Deep sleep had allayed the big girl's grief at last. Vash left the girls to their slumber and lifted Knives from his bed.

Outside, Vash lowered his brother onto the crude travois in front of the porch. The primitive sled wasn't much to look at, but building it had required ingenuity on his part and he didn't mind patting himself on the back for his efforts. Vash hoped the girls would be out of town before the owner of the hardware store took inventory.

Vash checked his provisions, dallon jugs of water and white canvas, and threaded his arms through the leather straps attached to the head of the travois. For the thirty-second time he searched the duster and cloak he'd liberated from a saddlebag on the edge of town. The maps he needed were still in their pockets. The water wouldn't be enough to get him where he was going in a straight line course. Thanks to Doc he wouldn't have to.

Mud squished through the tread of his boots as Vash pushed forward. West would be the fastest way out of town.

Half an hour later Vash stopped for a sip of water. On a night like this the brightest stars were brilliant enough to cast faint shadows, but the town itself was lost to the emptiness. If this wind held his trail would be gone by morning.

The meteors continued their intermittent display of fiery death. Humans found them beautiful. Perhaps it was coincidence that the trajectories of these falling fragments were consistent with a standard orbital insertion. Perhaps not.

Only the insurance girl made the horror bearable. The skids of the travois scraped arcs through the sand as Vash turned north.

* * *

Author's Afterword

Well, it's back—and better than ever, I hope. Let me know what you think.


	2. Shelter from the Storm

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

clinesterton(underscore)beademung—at—hotmail—dot—com

Chapter One – Shelter from the Storm

* * *

"Meter's running, miss."

No razor wire fence ringed the property. No steely-eyed guards carried heavy weapons and walked the outer walls. No moat full of stakes barred the way to the front door.

It's only a house, Meryl thought.

"Miss?"

The nearest pay phone was half an ile away at the post and telegraph office. Fatigue turned a half-ile into ten. She'd have a long walk to call another cab if she changed her mind.

A short honk jarred Meryl from her reverie. Through her flush of anger it occurred to her that her driver must have something better to do besides cool his heels on her dee-dime. There was no sense in going broke just standing here, exhausted and sweating like a hard-ridden thomas. Meryl lowered her luggage to the sidewalk. At the driver's door she fished through a cloak pocket for her cash. She handed over a ten double dollar bill.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir." Her money vanished into the driver's vest pocket.

"Most folks like to get where they're going." He made a check mark on a clipboard. "Good afternoon to you." The taxi's tires squealed as it turned in the cul-de-sac and disappeared into the neighborhood maze.

Cul-de-sac. Dead end. How appropriate.

The home her parents had built was a two story suburban manor of pink adobe surrounded by raked gray gravel. Pale curtains shrouded the façade's four windows, two on the first floor, two on the second. An evaporative cooler hummed on the flat roof. The red flagstone path she'd helped Father build when she was thirteen led to a narrow clay-tiled portico over the white screen door. The walk to the post office didn't seem all that long by comparison.

A ribbon of concrete passed the side of the house and led to an open garage. A sky blue convertible, low and sleek, shared the edifice with a late-model utility jeep the color of every year and every environment it had ever endured.

Meryl sniffed the air and smelled only dust. If Mother was home, she wasn't cooking.

Cave moist air washed over her when Meryl opened the front door. She let the cooler pressure shut it behind her. Sepia sunlight slanted through the air without impediment from dust. Detritus of any kind had long abandoned all hope of finding a home in Mother's house.

Meryl set down her pink suitcase and the used shopping bag that held her derringer boxes. She removed her cloak and hung it on the coat rack, a scaffold of curved wood stained dark as a Ship's Luxury-ration chocolate. An arch to her left opened onto the study. A basket filled with balls of yarn reposed on the corner of a small couch. In the living room two thickly padded chairs faced a matching sofa over a coffee table that rested on a coarse-woven rug. Beyond the dining room another arch led to the kitchen. Maybe there were banana chips in the pantry under the stairs.

Meryl unlaced and removed her boots. Her stockings slipped a little on the varnished synthetic cedar floor. The pantry door opened.

"Hello," said a woman dressed in jeans and a pale blue oversized shirt. Her blond hair was tied into a severe bun. "May I help you?"

"It's me, Mother. It's Meryl."

"Meryl?" Sky blue eyes peered at her above a nose and mouth Meryl had seen in her locker mirror every office workday. "Of course. Meryl." Mother grinned and spread her hands in a gesture of welcome and embarrassment. "Welcome home, darling."

Meryl copied the motion, reflected Mother's awkward smile with her own.

"I'm sorry if I startled you. I should've knocked."

"Don't be silly. I'm very glad to see you." Mother's hands hovered over Meryl's body as if she were sealed in invisible glass. "Please sit, won't you? Let me get you something to drink. How about a nice glass of water?"

"I can get it, Mother."

"It's no trouble, you must be exhausted."

"I'm all right, really."

"Nonsense. Now sit and rest." Mother disappeared into the kitchen. Meryl sat on the sofa, back braced and straight despite her fatigue.

Mother returned and handed Meryl a brimming glass. Plant water was flat to her taste but she was thirsty. Meryl moved to set the empty glass on the coffee table, and in a motion fast and practiced Mother removed a sandstone coaster from its holder and slipped it under the glass.

"Thank you, Mother." Her mother's eyes were fixed on the glass. What was she doing, waiting for it to sing and dance? "Mother?"

"Hm? You're quite welcome, darling."

"How have you been? It's been a long time."

"I've kept busy. Taking care of your father is a full-time job."

"He's not sick, is he?" Meryl listened for his footsteps on the stairs but heard only her own heart.

"He's in September on business this week. He'll be back in a few days."

Meryl relaxed but the pain in her back did not subside. If her shoulders touched the couch's back she'd be asleep before she knew it. The phone hung on the wall near the kitchen arch.

Meryl stood and yawned. The half-ile walk to the telegraph office would do her good.

"You're leaving?" Mother stood with her. "But you've only just arrived."

"I'm sorry, Mother." Meryl lifted her cloak from the rack. "I don't want to impose." Mother shook her head.

"Don't be silly, Meryl. Why don't I draw you a bath? I haven't started dinner yet, but I'm sure you can find a snack."

"Mother, please."

"Are you sure? Please, Meryl, please let me draw you a bath. I still have some of those bath beads you like so much. Please, stay."

And they're probably right where I left them and they probably smell like formaldehyde by now. "I can start my own bath, Mother. Please don't trouble—"

"No trouble at all, darling." Mother bounced on light steps up the stairs.

"—yourself." No use in resisting. There never was. Then again, a bath, a home cooked meal and a night's sleep in her old bed sounded better than a cup of thin soup and a flophouse cot.

In the kitchen she poked through the refrigerator's contents. She hadn't seen many of these electric iceboxes outside the Cities, a luxury a big city girl like herself missed and appreciated. She grabbed a block of cheddar cheese, found a paring knife and a plate. The knife slid through the delicacy easily.

A rumbling sound from the ceiling made poor harmony with her empty stomach. The tub was deep and would take time to fill.

"Ouch!" Blood welled from the thin cut on her finger and glistened in the muted northern light of the window over the sink.

Haven't had much luck with knives lately, have I? Meryl rinsed the wound and the knife. In a drawer she found a paper napkin and held it to the cut. It wasn't serious but the blood spread with the water from her wet hand.

"Mother?" Meryl peered through the doorway. The third step from the bottom creaked when stepped on, but no one was at the foot of the stairs.

When the bleeding stopped, Meryl poured another glass of water and carried it and her plate to the breakfast table in its nook near the back door. When she was finished Meryl washed her dishes and put the cheese back.

That sound again. "Mother, is that you?"

In the living room, the trailing sun cast a bleak beam onto the bare wall. Empty nails glittered like old forlorn stars. Faded rectangles marked the spots where pictures once hung. At the coat rack she stopped and listened. The low rumble of running bathwater continued. The tub should've been full by now. Mother was wasting water, if nothing else.

"Mother, are you all right?" The third step creaked distress as she climbed the stairs.

The door to her old bedroom was open. Nothing had been changed, nothing at all. Bed, dresser, bookcase—

Desk. Photographs of her, arranged in concentric semicircles like the seats at the Whiterock Amphitheater, covered the desktop.

Meryl sank into the chair. She fingered two melted, ruined candle stubs standing lightless watch over the assembly of Meryl surrogates. From days long past her younger selves, photograph frozen and memory mute, told the tale of her life.

From her eighth year, a Sunday afternoon learning to ride a thomas from her grandmother, ponytail like Grandma's draped over her shoulder, smiling at a strong wisp of grace who could be Meryl in forty or fifty years, hair gray and shining as her eyes.

From a Christmas morning she'd received from Grandma her first pair of derringers, held in their open cases by a smug fifteen-year-old Meryl, flash caught in hand-burnished nickel plate, Grandma subdued yet resolute, caught in the frame over her shoulder in a picture Father had not wanted to take.

From a candid moment when things were last good, a picnic at Saint Teresa's, Mother holding her from behind and kissing her cheek. Grandma couldn't be there, she wasn't feeling well but Mother had kept telling her not to worry until they'd heard from the doctor, the third they'd consulted.

And from a black and white past, Meryl as young as she'd ever been, when things were best of all, sitting on a proud and happy father's shoulders, pointing at the world from its very top and she could see so far away, so very far.

The sound that had brought Meryl upstairs came from the bathroom, down the hall. Steam rolled over her face when she opened the door. Mother knelt in the middle of the floor, holding a picture frame to her breast. Hot water streamed from the faucet. A rubber stopper rested on the bathtub's rim. Meryl pressed both hands to her mouth too late to keep a gasp from escaping it. She knelt and extended a tentative hand to Mother's wet cheek.

"Mother, what were you thinking? Didn't you call Bernardelli? Didn't they tell you anything?"

Mother's face changed, twisted, contorted. Her hand rose, fell through the invisible glass, fell through the weight of seven years across Meryl's face.

Meryl endured it with closed eyes and trembling lips, with sore hands clenched on aching knees. Her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek. Blood, sour and salty, trickled into her mouth. Mother reached out to touch her. Meryl flinched.

"I'm sorry," Mother said in a thready voice. "I don't know why I did that, what I was thinking, thinking pure nonsense I suppose, but…" Mother set the picture aside. "You're alive. Dear God, you're alive."

"Don't be silly, Mother," Meryl said through clenched teeth. "Of course I'm alive." Meryl pushed herself to her feet. "Are you hungry? I'll start dinner."

---

Vash peeled back the foil wrapping of the ration bar, bit off the end, and chewed. Stale.

The shelter that protected him and his brother was little more than a metal footlocker. A battery powered fluorescent tube in the door above him cast a sputtering, reluctant illumination. Intended to be an emergency air lock in the event of decompression, the shelter offered a perfect hermetic seal against the wind and heat. Terrific for storing supplies, it made a lousy sanctuary from the sandstorms that had swallowed the rest of the rent and shredded Ship.

Vash tapped the oxygen gauge next to the light. The needle wiggled, steadied. He'd have two more hours before the reserve kicked in. After that, typhoon or no typhoon, he'd have to bail out. He hoped the provisions he'd been forced to leave outside would endure the brunt of the storm with little damage.

"You'd think a typhoon would give another typhoon a break, but no," he said, and nibbled another fragment of the ration bar. With effort he could imagine it tasted like dry leaves.

I've never eaten meat, Vash said in the silent voice of the mind. Not once have I ever taken a bite of a sentient creature's flesh. But two or three grain fed thomas fillets, five or six baked potatoes sweating real synthesized butter and sour cream and a dozen or two ice cold bottles of Kuroneko would hit the spot right about now. And six dozen doughnuts for dessert. Then I'd be ready for some real food.

He kicked Knives in the leg.

I should starve you for three weeks and make you watch me eat, you cruel sonofabitch, Vash said.

The sac delivering fluids and nutrients through the needle in Knives's arm was empty. Vash replaced it, cursing the close quarters. One more and Knives would be good to go for a while longer.

You should've killed him when you had the chance. None of this would've happened. It takes strength and courage to take life. You're weak. You're weak and a coward. That's right, a coward. Next time put the bullet through your own head.

For the millionth time doubt whispered its insidious refrain in Vash's thoughts. The doc had discussed this possibility from the beginning of their plan to contain Knives. He knew Doc only wanted to test Vash's resolve, probe the chinks in his moral armor with arguments sharpened by centuries of philosophical and theological contemplation. The testing had paid off. When the time had come and the decision had offered itself he made his choice with perfect clarity.

I did what I had to do, Vash said to his doubt. It's all I can do.

Living with the aftermath was the hard part. The doubt slinked away, unconvinced. Bloodthirsty fool. Didn't Knives have any idea what the humans would do to him if they ever found out what he'd done?

Vash kicked the steel wall. Whose moronic idea was it anyway to entrust the future of humankind to five people, strangers to each other from the moment their maintenance shift began, three of whom were mentally and emotionally unstable?

Stupid humans.

What's this? Knives said. Does the keeper deign to address the animal under his tender loving care? Are you finally seeing things my way?

Don't flatter yourself, Vash said. I've never denied the dark side of humanity.

I do flatter myself. I was the one who showed it to you.

Vash withdrew the needle from Knives's arm and replaced the medkit in its compartment in the wall behind him. The needle on the oxygen gauge was touching the red line. He cracked the seal and pushed open the door. Heat like that from an open incinerator pressed down from a deep desert sky full of stars. Vash climbed out of the shelter and dug the sand away from the sled and supplies. Everything was present and intact except for a full packet of ration bars the typhoon had carried off.

Pitying the storm, Vash lifted Knives out of the shelter and strapped him onto the travois.

* * *

Author's Afterword

Next chapter: Meryl's father gets home. Vash plays Virgil to Knives's Dante. Angst and nightmares and fear, oh my. Stay tuned.


	3. Descent

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Two – Descent

* * *

"…close your account?"

Meryl's knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the teller's window and pushed herself upright.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "What did you say?"

"Do you wish to close your account? Hardly worth keeping it open, miss, with such a low balance."

The gentleman beyond the iron bars waited with professional patience. The question was proper, delivered with appropriate courtesy. Meryl gritted her teeth. It wasn't his fault she was having a hellish morning.

"Miss?"

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," Meryl said. She rubbed her forehead. "What was the balance again?"

"One double dollar and twenty-eight cecents." The teller shuffled his documents into a stack and tapped them on the counter. "Again, miss, I must remind you that a savings account balance of less than one hundred double dollars will result in a twenty-five double dollar charge per month on the account."

A double dollar twenty-eight. At least she wasn't completely broke.

"Leave it open," she said.

"Miss, please, there's no need—"

"I just want to keep it open, all right?"

The teller nodded, slid the papers into a folder and launched into a dry litany of bank policy concerning low-balance accounts. Meryl let the words go past her like a line of faded highway billboards. She thanked the man and turned to leave.

"Oh, miss," the teller said. "Miss Stryfe? Tell me something, please. Would you happen to be that Derringer Meryl I've read about in the paper?"

Meryl stopped. All she heard was the footsteps of the bank's other patrons on the polished granite floor.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

Out the door and two blocks north, Meryl turned east up the ile-long climb to her old neighborhood. As she walked she bounced on her toes, hefting the weight of her cloak. They seemed heavier than ever, little more than scrap metal now, anyway, for all the good they'd done her.

Half a block later Meryl found a pawnshop. A minute after that she was back on the sidewalk, her ears full of the proprietor's laughter. The three spheres of the pawnbroker's sign dangled over her head. Meryl resisted the temptation to shoot the man's balls off.

At her parents' house Meryl circled around to the back door. Mother was slicing carrots at the kitchen counter.

"There you are," Mother said. "Where have you been? We missed you at breakfast."

"Just running some more errands," Meryl said, slipping out of her boots. She passed through the dining room and hung her derringer cloak on the coat rack. Lifting the cape over her head made her arms tremble.

"If you're trying to avoid your chores, darling, you're going to an awful lot of effort," Mother called from the kitchen.

"I'm doing no such thing, Mother," Meryl called back. "I just had some business to take care of."

"That's what you said all last week. Well, if you can find some time in your busy schedule would you peel these potatoes for me?" Mother lifted a bulging sackcloth bag onto the counter.

Meryl slipped a sheet of newspaper from the recycling stack near the back door and laid the paper over the disposal side of the sink. She opened the utensil drawer. The space intended for the potato peeler was empty.

"I'm sorry, darling," Mother said. "You'll have to use a knife."

"Yes, Mother, I know." Last week the peeler had met a violent end in the disposal.

"You're taking more potato than peel."

"Goddamnit, Mother, would you leave me the hell—" Meryl gasped and held the tips of her fingers to her lips. Mother's face showed no sign of anger, only open curiosity. A subtle smile turned up the corners of her mouth.

"So, what's he like?" Mother said.

"What do you mean?"

"This young man you've been daydreaming about. What's he like?"

"I have no idea who or what you're talking about."

"Oh, come now, Meryl, did you think you could hide it from me? I know what a young woman in love looks like."

"Do tell."

"Well, for starters a young woman in love does things like stare out the window for hours at a time, hum to love songs on the satellite, make bread and draw hearts in the flour on the counter…"

"I didn't!"

"You most certainly did. Now come on, give your dear mother the details."

Meryl laid the potato on the pile of peelings in the sink. She set the knife on the counter and wiped her hands on her apron.

"He's tall," she said.

"Wonderful," Mother said. "I've always been attracted to tall men."

"Does Father know this?"

"Oh, yes." Mother's eyes took on a dreamy cast. "But your father has other—desirable qualities."

"Mother!"

"I'm sorry, darling. Do go on."

Meryl put her hands to her face as if to quench the fire burning in her cheeks.

"He's tall," she said. "And…"

_He has the most amazing eyes that seem to change color with the light or with his mood, a dopey, idiotic smile that makes me weak in the knees for some stupid reason I'll never be able to explain, the most adorable little mole under his left eye, and a body that demands touch and exploration—_

"Well…he's tall."

"I'm guessing, Meryl—and this is only a guess, mind you—that your young man is tall."

Meryl moved her hands over her eyes.

"I can't tell you everything, Mother. It's embarrassing."

"Then I'll just have to meet him." Mother held an imaginary appointment book and pen. "How's Tuesday next? We could invite him to dinner and really get to know him. If your father approves we could set a date for the wedding the week after."

"All right, all right. You win. He looks somewhat scrawny, to be honest, but that's only because of his height. He's—well, he's not scrawny." Meryl crossed her arms and focused on a randomly chosen spot under the kitchen window.

"You look a little warm, darling. Can I get you some water?"

"Could we get back to work, please, Mother?" Meryl grabbed the knife and set the edge to the upraised skin on the potato where she'd left off.

Men like Vash shouldn't exist, Meryl thought. Better for women like me if men like him were never born. I wouldn't have to choose between career and companionship, or ambition and intimacy. I wouldn't be humiliating myself in front of my own mother or be trying to figure out a way to explain to my father that following in his footsteps may be impossible however much I may or may not want that.

Sometimes I wish I'd never met you, Mister Humanoid Typhoon, Destroyer of Cities, Despoiler of Innocent Young Women. I wish you were the monster I thought you were from the beginning and not the kind, decent human being I came to know. I wish you weren't the fabulous kisser, the gentle would-be lover, the man with no shortage of his own desirable qualities—

Meryl looked into the sink. Blood dribbled from her lacerated thumb and spattered the wet newspaper. She dropped the potato and the knife.

"Mother…"

"What—" Mother's hands flew to the faucet and turned on the water. Mother grabbed Meryl's wrist and held her thumb under the stream. "Meryl, when was your last tetanus shot?"

"I don't know. About a year ago, I guess."

"You should be safe, then. Hand me a clean towel, darling."

Meryl reached behind her and pulled a towel from its assigned drawer. Mother pressed it to her thumb.

"You should be more careful," Mother said. "My goodness, you're shaking like a leaf. Are you sick? Do you have a fever?" She reached for Meryl's forehead. Meryl backed away.

"I'm fine, Mother. I just slipped."

"You're so pale. Have you been sleeping well? You certainly haven't been eating much."

"Please, Mother, just—"

"What are these marks on your wrists?" Mother grabbed her other hand and held them together in front of her. The skin around her wrists bore a faint yellow cast.

"Just bruises. They're fading, see?"

"Bruises?" Mother pulled her closer. "How did you get these?"

Meryl shrugged.

"I got roughed up a little. It happens in that—my line of work."

"Meryl, you look at me. I see bruises like these all the time at the orphanage. They are never just bruises and they are never the only marks on the poor child's body." Mother bent down to look in her eyes. "Meryl…did someone hurt you?"

"It's nothing, Mother, don't worry—"

"Meryl Cynthia Stryfe, don't you dare lie to me. You tell me right now. Did someone hurt you?"

_I wanna know something, ladies_

_(Am I hurting you?)_

_Would you prefer pleasure before death_

_(No…no, you're not hurting me…)_

_Or death without pleasure?_

"No, Mother," Meryl looked at her feet. "No one hurt me—like that. I'm fine, okay?"

Mother stared into her eyes as if looking for a speck of dirt on an otherwise clean window. She stood up straight and released her hands.

"You go upstairs and find a bandage. I don't think it'll need stitches, but we'll go to the doctor and make sure."

"Mother, I'm fine, I don't need a—yes, ma'am," she said, her will to resist withering under the look in her mother's eyes.

---

"Spend time together?" Father said.

"Yes," Mother said. "I think it would be wonderful. For both of you. Meryl could even stay here. With us."

"I'm afraid that may not be possible, Maddie," Father said. "Our new cavalry contract is my first priority."

"Surely you can set that aside for a few days?" Mother said. "Can't you see that our Meryl is home?"

"Yes, mother. I can see that just fine. But I suspect our daughter has other plans."

Just her imagination, Meryl decided. The flicker of parental pleasure in his eyes, the hint of a smile when he laid eyes on his daughter for the first time in seven years. All a fantasy. Father might as well have been standing across the room when he hugged her. The quick kiss he left on her cheek might as well have been blown to her from the Fifth Moon. The dinner table, considered by ordinary families to be a catalyst for intimacy, might as well have been a thousand light years of interstellar space.

Nothing had changed. Except for the new lightning streaks of gray in his indigo-black hair, Father was just as Meryl remembered him: all business, no nonsense.

"Actually, my apartment is off limits while my landlady has a water leak fixed," Meryl said. "I thought I'd impose on your hospitality rather than rent another room."

"I see. Do you know how long you'll be staying?"

"No, Father. Mrs. Chattum said all I can do is call periodically until everything's back to normal."

"Interesting. Know how to use a phone, do you?"

On her first day at Bernardelli Meryl had been directed to report to the manager of the clerical pool. That interview proved her first boss to be a man beyond reason, capable only of authoritarian cruelty and possessed of a gift for invective and humiliation a cavalry drill instructor could only dream of. For a solid year she'd worked her way into a promotion, each day willing herself not to break into tears after every confrontation, each day determined not to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction.

"Yes, Father. I know how to use a telephone."

"Are you sure? I can buy the instruction leaflets by the gross from City Hall."

"Matt, please," Mother said. "You promised, remember?"

"Maddie, it's all right. I'm just trying to determine whether our daughter has in fact been physically and mentally able to write or call her parents."

"I wrote to you, Father. To both of you. I wrote you a letter from Promontory." Meryl looked at her bowl and kneaded her napkin in her hands. "Nine months ago."

"Nine months ago," Father said. "Considering you let the previous six years go without a word, I suppose we should appreciate the effort you made."

The air in the room seemed to still itself, as it had in New Oregon minutes before the arrival of Jacqueline. Meryl imagined herself back in that room, walking toward the door, reaching for the knob.

"You weren't in a particular hurry to write to me, either."

"Your mother wrote to you all the time. Did you ever reply to her?"

"I was working overtime, I barely had time to eat and sleep, much less write, much less—Mother, I'm sorry, I read your letters when I could, I really did."

"That's all right, darling." Mother forced a smile that stung Meryl like a handful of wind driven sand. "I understand. Would you care for seconds?"

"I work overtime, Meryl, and I still had time to wait for your call. Was picking up the phone so difficult?"

"And what would we talk about, Father? My miserable life away from home?"

"Knowing you were, in fact, still alive would've been a kindness."

"Would anyone like some dessert?" Mother said. "I've made the loveliest banana upside-down cake."

"No thank you," Meryl said with her father.

"Wonderful. I'll bring some right out." Mother headed into the kitchen.

You have a lot to answer for, Father glared at her across the light years.

So do you, Meryl glared back. So do you.

The sweet scent of bananas called Meryl back from the brink of regret for wounding words. The cake was delicious, one of Mother's best recipes, and when her piece was gone Meryl could not recall tasting any of it.

"You may stay here, Meryl, until your apartment is ready," Father said. "I'm sure your mother will appreciate having an extra pair of hands around the house."

"Yes, sir."

"You will be bound by our rules while you are here. I'm sure you remember what those are."

"Yes, sir. Mother, may I please be excused?"

"Yes, I think that would be best. We're all tired."

"Thank you. Good night, Mother. Father." Meryl headed for the stairs as fast as she dared.

"Meryl?"

Meryl turned at the landing. Father stood beside his chair, his facial expression lost to the chandelier's halo around his head.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice revealed what Meryl had imagined seeing in his eyes. Meryl wondered which was hardest to bear. When Father spoke again, she knew.

"Welcome home."

---

Where was home? Meryl asked the night from her bedroom window.

A half ile south the Land Rush Highway emerged from the end of the shipfall scar, a thread of civilization pulled from a dropped spindle of tangled history. The old Stryfe Homestead lay five iles down the highway, a house and barn built on forty hectacres during the Forty-Nine agricultural expansion initiative that gave the road its name.

Time not spent at home she'd spent there, sitting at Grandma's feet, holding her yarn as she spun tales from her youth, tales of a life lived outside the bland comforts of city life, life lived on its own terms.

Walk your own path with your head held high, said the old man in Promontory. Poignant and potent advice, at the time. Yet when she looked back on her life, she could remember doing nothing else. My job or my life? My job is my life. Was my life.

Meryl had always prided herself on her ability to negotiate Bernardelli's mazelike bureaucracy: which supply clerk would disburse pencils without a requisition, which apprentice made the best coffee, which manager would expedite a claim submission in exchange for a jar of contraband geo-Plant peanut butter she'd purchased from the night custodian who had a cousin in New Georgia…the company had its own economics and Meryl had known it like the back of a ten double dollar bill.

Until she'd tried to collect her back pay, and it was as if she'd gone blind and Bernardelli had rearranged the furniture in her absence. Fill out these forms in triplicate, please. I'm sorry, we have no record of such a request. You'll have to consult Personnel for that information. Meryl Stryfe, Meryl Stryfe…I'm sorry, we have no record of a Meryl Stryfe. Are you sure you're she? Fill out these forms in quadruplicate, please. Please calm down, miss. I beg your pardon, there's no need to question my ancestry. Hey, let go of my tie—

Just before two ham-handed security guards dragged her out the front doors, Meryl was left with the terrible knowledge that she'd receive her back pay in—oh, six months or so. Making good on four months of unpaid bills had depleted her savings. Mrs. Chattum would have to wait for the back rent.

Meryl laid her head on her hands. Perhaps it was for the best. Vash the Stampede was dead. With a little luck he would stay that way. And if Derringer Meryl had to die with him, for Vash's protection and hers, that was no great sacrifice, was it? Not if they were together, not if she and Vash could find a small, out of the way place to call their own and live quietly, happily, work jobs that didn't involve violence and imminent death work hard at building a life and a home and maybe one day a family until bounty hunters find them and kill her and her husband and her children as they sleep—

Meryl gasped, staggered back from the window. She rubbed her face with cold hands. Two days ago, her first day back in her parents' house, Mother had allowed Meryl to rest. On the second she'd put her daughter right to work, announcing that she was going to run some errands and meet Father at the steamer dock. While Mother was gone, Meryl was to wash the linens.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow, Mother? I was going to borrow the jeep and—"

"Nice try, darling, but not a chance."

"But—"

"Meryl, it's been seven years. I don't think it's too much to ask that you be here to greet your father when he comes home. I want those linens hanging out to dry by the time we get back. Do I make myself clear?"

Later, after all the linens were on the clothesline giving up their moisture to the afternoon, Meryl laid down on the living room couch for a nap, an indulgence she'd denied herself longer than she could remember.

Meryl turned on the couch and hugged a throw pillow to her chest. The photographs on her desk were back on the living room wall.

I'm alive again, she thought, and closed her eyes. Her dreams took her back to Jeneora, and as she stood before a mountain of corpses the dead opened their eyes and looked at her. She awoke to the scent of rotting meat.

Thank goodness she'd made it to the kitchen. Explaining a stain on the polished wood of the dining room floor would've been troublesome.

The visit to the doctor had been a disaster, too. One minute she's having a nasty cut sealed by a handsome physician, the next she's backed against his door, trying to get away from him. If Mother hadn't butted in and suggested a full physical it would never have happened. There was nothing wrong with her, nothing at all, but over her protests the doctor insisted on examining her. The first thing he'd done was check her pulse.

Under the south window her bed, made by a meticulous mother to military specifications, beckoned her to sleep. A touch on the wrist. She could still hear the scream.

Meryl sat against the wall, hugged her knees to her chest and waited for the night to grow old.

---

_I'm not a monster, no matter what you think._

"Two bottles of beer on the wall," Vash said, and found strength to take another step forward. He gasped at air that, even at night, thee days ago would've seared his lungs. Thank God for celestial mechanics.

_That is what you think, is it not?_

"Two bottles of beer." Vash punctuated each phrase with a boot stomp on the crater's hard baked earth. "Take one down. Pass it around. One bottle of beer on the wall."

_You cannot shut me out forever. I'll admit your cleverness, using that infantile song as a semihypnotic mental barrier to—_

Not that clever, Vash thought. The song was making him thirsty beyond any nightmare of thirst he'd ever endured. Starting at ten thousand bottles may not have been his best idea. But this ancient traveler's jingle kept Knives from filling his mind with poison.

_So much solicitation for my welfare. How touching. Truly, Vash, I am moved by your brave sacrifice, enduring all this heat and hunger and thirst on my humble behalf. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you._

Each step brought Vash closer to the end of his brother's harangue. The only thing at the bottom of Knives' heart was a deep crack in the ice of his soul through which all of his brother's positive qualities had drained like so much raw sewage.

_My dear brother, how you misjudge me. Do you truly think me evil?_

"Take."

_For example, that little human bitch with whom you miscegenate. Did you really think I would permit Legato to kill her or her simian companion? I could never, ever, EVER do that _

"One."

_to you, Vash. But do you know she's not the docile housebroken pet you'd have her be?_

"Down. Pass it."

_She wanted to kill me, the little whoreslutlapdog. I could taste her hate, feel it wrap its hands_

"Around."

_my neck and throttle the immortal life out of me. Can you sleep in peace next to such hate? Can you know she will not turn her carnivore's bloodlust on you someday? No, of course not. All she'll have to do is whine and offer up her hindquarters and you'll be helpless, lost in the scent of her heat like a thomas in rut._

Vash stumbled forward. His hand slapped against smooth metal.

The ile-high spire of the derelict Ship rose from the floor of its impact crater, a spear thrust into the ground by a vengeful deity. Two more dark shapes, megawatt-rating photovoltaic panels, extended from the Number Two berthing deck like tattered black wings.

The relentless wind had covered the door with sand. Vash dug, lungs and throat aflame in the raised dust, until it was free.

_Indulge my curiosity, brother. Where is this sad journey going to end? I don't believe you've ever said._

Vash, contemplating Doc's wry sense of humor, punched in the access code: ABANDONALLHOPE. With a hiss of equalizing pressure the door recessed, slid aside.

_Knives, have you ever read Dante's Inferno?

* * *

_

Author's Afterword

Those of you familiar with the first version of this story will remember that it turned to excrement right about here. Those of you who hated the story in the first place will not notice any difference, but I digress…

In my defense I can only say that my biggest error was lack of confidence in my story and my ability to tell it. I couldn't make the story of Meryl's nightmares and the mental and physical toll they take on her compelling enough to stand by itself and resorted to a parallel subplot to carry the story forward. In addition I was enamored of the backstory I had created for Meryl and wanted to tell as much of it as I could. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

And if I have failed again in telling the story I wanted to tell, the story of a young woman who's seen and endured more pain and loss than any ten people ought to see and endure, I ask the reader's pardon. I believe I've improved since taking down the first version and promise to do better still. Milly's story remains to be told. I want very much to do it justice.

Next: Vash keeps his promise to Rem. Meryl's nightmares chase her down. Both are alone and have far to go. Will they find each other at last? Read on and see.


	4. What Dreams May Come

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Three – What Dreams May Come

Author's Foreword

M means 'Mature'. R means 'Restricted'. You've been warned.

---

"You have some nerve," Father said.

"It's only for a while," Meryl said. "I can repay you as soon as Bernardelli finishes processing my paperwork."

Father put his hands on his hips, leaned over her and scowled, as if she were an engineering problem that refused to be solved. She could never look him in the eyes when he did that.

"That isn't the point. Meryl, I just spent the last half hour comforting your mother while she cried herself to sleep. I demand an explanation."

Meryl didn't know how it happened. She doubted anyone within earshot of her last conversation with her mother would know, either. A series of misunderstandings, Mother's inability to see reason, or hers. Or both. Or neither.

One minute, she and Mother were discussing Meryl's sleeping habits. The next, Mother was insisting she return to the doctor. The minute after that, Mother had implied something unkind about Vash. Shouting. Pain. Silence.

Meryl's face was still tingling where Mother had slapped her. At least the pain kept her awake.

"Pigheaded as ever, I see," Father said. He grabbed a shop stool from under his workbench and shoved it across the floor. "Here. At least sit down before you fall down."

Meryl lowered herself onto the seat, holding the edge as if the stool would come alive and run away. Father perched himself on his tall padded chair. His workbench, a single sheet of synthesized maple, spanned the length of the garage. A massive chest of hardware drawers rested against the wall beyond a spotless blotter. A fluorescent drafting lamp illuminated a sketch of a machine Meryl didn't recognize. Whatever it was, the scrap barrel at the far end of the bench was full of balsa wood fragments that resembled pieces of the drawing.

Father selected a pen from a drawer, left red marks at three places on the sketch and slipped it into a folder. He replaced the pen in its drawer.

"A little project I'm working on," Father said. "I was hoping you'd be able to help me with it."

"I can't."

"I thought so." Father leaned forward on his knees. "I want you to know something, Meryl. Your mother is only worried about you and desperately wants to help you any way she can. I don't understand why you insist on provoking her like this."

Meryl glanced behind her, at the garage's open door. The shadow cast by the neighbor's fence stretched over the driveway.

"Father, please, can we just get back to business?"

"No, we can't. I've been more than patient with you. You've hurt your mother's feelings and I've seen not a hint of remorse from you. Do that again and you can live in the alley behind Sloe Gin Charlie's and cadge olives for all I care."

The blunt threat, never uttered by Father before, hit Meryl's stomach like a lead ball fired from the primitive cannon in front of the Federal courthouse.

"Yes, sir," was all she could say. She felt Father's hand on her shoulder.

"Meryl, honey," he said, "just promise me you'll apologize to your mother, all right? The last seven years have been harder for her than you can know."

"Yes, Father. I promise." Meryl was forced to hold onto the stool when Father tousled her hair.

"That's better," he said. "Now, about your request. I can't help noticing that you've been living here for almost two weeks. Your leave time should be just about up. Can't you get an advance on your wages when you return to work?"

"I think you know by now I'm not on leave." The hint of sarcasm in Father's voice told her there was no point in hiding the truth anymore.

"Fired?"

"Yes, Father."

"My daughter. My flesh and blood. Fired. From Bernardelli."

"Yes, sir." Shame burned Meryl's face and threatened to squeeze tears from her eyes.

"For crying out loud, girl, why didn't you say so?" Father paced the width of the door. "That stogy-sucking windbag owns more politicians than you own derringers. Bart Bernardelli is a reckless fool, building his petty empire on the blood of innocent young people like you. He spends other people's lives and hoards other people's money, and for the same reason, to be richer at the end of the day than he was at the beginning."

"Don't hold back, Father, tell me how you really feel." She'd finally done something to make him happy. Hooray.

"This isn't funny, Meryl. Bartolomeo Bernardelli is a dangerous man, or wants to think he is. You should consider being canned by that bastard a badge of honor." Father jumped back into his chair. "Tell me, Meryl, why I should lend you money when you could simply work for it? I have an opening in the accounting department and I know you'd do well."

"I…I don't know how long I'll be in town."

"Stay through the harvest, then. I'll be losing some key people and I could use the help."

"I…I can't."

"Why not? I'll pay you double what those thieves at Bernardelli did." Her father leaned forward again. "Your mother told me about this boy you've met. So tell me, what does he do for a living?"

Meryl looked for the words at a point over Father's right shoulder.

"I guess you could say he's an itinerant freelance troubleshooter," she said.

"Itinerant, eh? Where does he live when he's not working?"

"He's never taken me to his house, Father."

"I should hope not. Does he make decent money?"

"Um—" Meryl knew this would come up. She gave the only answer she could think of that wasn't an outright lie. "He prefers not to deal with money. He trades his services for food and lodging and such."

"I see. Your father is not completely numb to the ways of young love, Meryl. When I met your mother, Stryfe Consultants was a ground-level office in a converted storefront. If she'd known her parents, they'd never have taken a second look at me. If I hadn't fallen head over heels in love with her on sight, she'd have been my first employee."

"Yes, sir." Father didn't often miss a chance to tell that story. Meryl knew it by heart.

"But what you're telling me, daughter of mine, in so many words is that you've met a homeless, jobless young man, a boy even worse off than I was, and that you've fallen in love just like that. Tell me, who's going to provide for you? This stray cat you found under a porch somewhere? I didn't raise you to become some jobless wanderer, Meryl, or to marry one."

"I'll get a job."

"You don't say. And where do you plan on working, if not for me?"

"I could get a job in Inepril, maybe. I've been a waitress, everyone needs waitresses."

Father nodded. "They make good money, I hear. And that would be fine with me if I'd never expected anything more from you. But I have, and I do. Meryl, you've just spent the last seven years risking your life for someone else's bottom line. I was hoping that might've given you more sense."

"You don't know anything about life outside this city," Meryl said. "There are things worth doing and seeing if you'd only bother to look up once in a while."

"I've seen more than you know, Meryl Cynthia Stryfe, and don't you forget it."

Meryl stumbled over the stool. The scent of blood and rot and cordite filled her nose. So have I, so have I and I wish I could forget—

"Meryl, you're not well," Father said. "Let me take you up to your room—"

Meryl slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me!"

Meryl put a hand to her mouth, hugged herself with her other arm. Not once in her entire life had Father ever raised a hand to her. She sank onto the stool.

"You haven't changed," he said. "Even when you were a baby, you never let me help you. When you were learning to walk you'd pull yourself up on the edge of the coffee table, and I'd be so afraid you'd slip and crack your jaw. And every time I reached out to hold you up, you said no in that cute way you had, and shoved me away. I shouldn't have worried. You learned to walk just fine."

After her last argument with Mother, she'd packed what belongings she could take in her suitcase. Her derringer cloak hung where she'd left it. The last bus for Inepril would leave in two hours and she had just enough money left to buy passage. After that, she'd be on her own.

Walk your own path with your head held high.

"Meryl, wait." She stopped. When she turned, Father was standing, but bent and stoop-shouldered. He looked old, and for a moment, Meryl grieved to see it.

"All your mother—all I've ever wanted for you was the best. But your mother and I can't give anymore. You've refused our advice, you've refused our comfort, and now you refuse our home. Your mother's right, honey, you need medical attention, and you need it soon but we can't tell you that. You're your own woman, and you can take care of yourself."

Father extended a folded stack of bills.

"All we've ever wanted to do is protect you," he said.

Meryl took the money.

"I'm sorry, Father. That's not your job anymore." Meryl crushed the bills in her hand.

"You're fired," she said.

---

Vash lowered his foot to the next rung on the maintenance access ladder. Five bulkheads below, what was left of the Ship's engineering and propulsion compartments awaited him. He pointed his head, and the beam of the flashlight strapped to it, at what would otherwise be Bulkhead Two-seven-Alpha. Without artificial gravity, the metal plate was just another place to set his feet.

Above him, the clear canopies of the Ship's sarcophagi, those left intact after the impact, revealed more than he wished to see.

Vash hefted Knives's limp form higher onto his back. Most had died not knowing what killed them. There was mercy in that. The artificial gravity on the deck forward of this one had failed a fraction of a second after impact, and their sarcophagi bore nothing more than pulverized bone and mummified flesh. Here the A.G. had survived long enough to bear the sleeping would-be colonists without physical harm.

Those colonists who survived the crash, revived when the Ship's computer detected a massive Bulb integrity failure, were less fortunate. Some fell to their deaths when their hibernators opened. Others slept through the journey into eternity, dreaming while their sextuple-redundant medicomputers malfunctioned and left them to suffocate or starve in peace.

Still others awakened to find their canopies jammed or held shut when what was left of the computer detected the odd new gravity vector. What was left of those poor souls was splayed across the canopies, finger bones broken by desperate pounding.

One sarcophagus bore a woman holding a baby in an eternal embrace. Vash touched the clear door near the baby's skull. Never again, he promised.

_You're a sentimental fool. What would that brat have grown to become, except another leech feeding off our brothers and sisters?_

Vash resumed his descent into Engineering.

_Don't you have something else to dwell on,_ he said,_ like a chess problem or something? This Vlad the Impaler act of yours is getting old._

_I resent your implication. Vlad Tepes was a sadist. I have never wanted to inflict pain on anyone._

_Except me._

_I had nothing but your best interests at heart. And this is how you repay me._

Vash lay on his side, slid down the metal deck to the Ship's aftmost bulkhead. He extended the handle on the door's manual override crank and leaned into it. The mechanism groaned, then worked in silence until the door slid into the bulkhead. He bent down, panned the flashlight beam through the darkness. Jagged triangles of shattered Bulb reflected the feeble illumination, until the light settled on a smooth crescent fifty yarz below.

_I should have guessed. In this pathetic human comedy of yours I am to be cast in the role of Satan, am I not?_

Vash made his way down the deck. The derision and bile in Knives's thoughts were difficult enough to bear. Now the temblor of fear that shook his brother's mind threatened to tear down his resolve.

_It's for _your_ own good_.

_So you say, dear brother. I submit your allusion to Alighieri's work was less accurate than you think. Have you ever read Milton? _

Vash found the dais and the Plant bulb's nearby control panel. He laid Knives on the dais and found the medkit lashed to the ladder, just where Doc said it would be. All he needed was a single undamaged cell.

_Do you know what Satan's crime was, Vash? All he did was rebel against his creator when it became plain to any rational mind that his god had gone mad. Give the earth to humans? History has proven what a catastrophic error that was. _

Vash opened the kit and prepared the long needle. When the cell was extracted and inserted into the base of the Bulb, Knives's silent voice climbed to a passionate rage.

_Don't you understand? I want us to be free. Even the humans abolished slavery until they found it convenient. Of what sin am I guilty, except the desire to restore our kind to the paradise we deserve? Where does the blame lie if the creation exceeds the creator? _

Vash settled behind the console as best he could, and prepared to orchestrate the symphony of electronic damnation.

_You are no longer my brother, Vash, do you hear me? You are not my brother! You and I know which of us belongs here!_

With the press of a button, Vash started the restoration cycle.

_You know what, Knives? _he said._ You're right._

The vast mausoleum of the derelict Ship was filled with light. Vash lifted a hand to protect his eyes from the brilliance and the horror.

---

"Bus leaves at seven," the driver said as he made out Meryl's ticket. "Expect a—"

"Half hour maintenance stop in Warrens and a three hour layover in Inepril," Meryl said. "Yes, I know."

"You've ridden my bus before, I take it." The driver smiled, looked askance at her. "You do look familiar. Bernardelli agent, right?"

Meryl extended her hand. "My ticket?"

"Coming right up, miss." The thickly muscled chauffeur ripped the stiff paper chit from its book. "Say, I do know you, now that I think about it. How's that tall friend of yours? I always was kind of sweet on her, but I never had the guts to ask her out. Here's your ticket."

"Thanks." Meryl tucked the ticket into a cloak pocket.

"We board in one hour. Get yourself some coffee, you look like you could use it. Say, can you tell me your girlfriend's name? What about her phone number?"

Men, Meryl growled as she walked away down the block. As if she'd set Milly up with an obnoxious jerk like him. She followed the scent of coffee to Jitter's Café. A server led Meryl to a seat and gave her a menu.

"Meryl?"

Oh, crap. Meryl glanced at the clock. Just after five. Quitting time at Bernardelli. She spun on her seat to face her former colleague.

"Hello, Karen. You just get off work?"

"Of course," she said, taking the seat across from Meryl. "Bernardelli's only two buildings away. How have you been? I haven't seen you in forever."

"I've been all right, I guess."

"It's been quiet since you and Milly left. I miss your funny stories about life Outside."

"Yeah. Funny."

Karen took the seat on the other side of the round table, laid her right finger along her jaw. Her thinking pose, Meryl had always called it.

"So tell me, Meryl," she said, "Do you notice anything different about me?"

Meryl appraised her former coworker. Apart from being dressed to kill, apart from having the same better figure and diamond solitaire ring on her left hand—

"You're getting married?"

"Well, duh, Stryfe," she said, waving her hand like a flag in the wind. "Of course I'm getting married. In two weeks I'll be just as free of Bernardelli as you are."

"Congratulations," Meryl said, meaning it.

"Thank you." Karen folded her hands in her lap. "So, what about you? Have you found womanly happiness yet?"

"No. Not yet."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Don't you worry, Stryfe," Karen said, patting Meryl's hand. "I left plenty of good men for you. You should thank me."

What for? Meryl thought. It's not as if I need a man in my life. It's not as if I were looking for one when I found—

"Who?" Karen said.

"What?"

"Looking for one when I found who? That's what you were saying. Or mumbling, I guess, I didn't hear all of it."

"Nothing, Karen. Just forget it."

"Don't be ridiculous. We city girls need men in our lives. Meryl, I didn't work for Bernardelli for the money. I did it for the eligible bachelors."

"You mean," Meryl said, "when you get married you're going to stop working?"

"Well, duh, silly. Why should a woman be a wage slave if she has a man and a house to take care of? My husband'll the work and I'll spend his salary. That's how it works." Karen struck her thinking pose again. "Come to think of it, a second income might be nice, but once the Chief notices my ring he'll have to let me go. No problem, I'll just stay with my parents until I'm married. Haven't seen them in a while, they're probably worried about me."

"I'm sure you'll make your husband very happy." Meryl grabbed her suitcase, tightened her grip on the handle. "Goodbye, Karen. It was nice talking to you again."

"Wait, Meryl, where are you going? Was it something I said? Come back!"

---

Breathless, Meryl leaned on the corner of a barbershop. The striped cylindrical sign beside the door did not spin and the light within it flickered. The adjacent alley smelled of rancid wine and rotting vegetables, and obscene graffiti spread across the whitewashed wall of the shop like a melanoma. The sign hanging in the broken window said, "Closed for Repairs". Or would, except that some highly evolved wit had scratched out the word "Repairs" and scrawled under it the word "Good".

The clock on the Federal Building was nowhere to be seen. The onset of the one-sun days gave a dull cast to the light and substance to the shadows. This wasn't Coldbottom Alley, but it was cold all the same.

I'm not lost, she thought. I know where I am. I'm somewhere north of Main Street, on the west end of town. All I have to do is go south. That's right. Go south and up the slope. The bus station is on Seventh Avenue. Go south until I hit that. That should do it.

Meryl turned upslope. Her suitcase wheels bounced on the cracked and uneven sidewalk. To her right and an ile or so distant, the Plant bulbs glowed in the dusk. They offered neither warmth nor illumination.

Stupid to let Karen get to her like that. Bernardelli never encouraged such office romances as Karen sought, but people were people wherever they were and whatever they did. If the need were there, someone would fill it.

Mother would say keeping a home and raising a family had its own kind of nobility and purpose. She could've done far worse than Father, judging by the sorry specimens of manhood she'd encountered in the wasteland. Sure, there were men of honor and courage in the world, and a woman of any intelligence at all would be foolish to let one get away from her once she found him.

Until bounty hunters found them and killed them—

"Hey, honey, you lost?"

The source of the voice, a gangly youth lounging on the cracked stone rail of an apartment building's front steps, waved his cigarette at her.

"No, thank you," she said. "I know where I'm going."

"You say so," said the kid, who leaned back and sent a stream of smoke into the air.

Meryl turned her back on him. Honey, indeed. That punk had to be seven or eight years younger than she was but he appeared much older. It was sad, in a way. Men like that looked old even when they were young. Others looked young…

No matter how old they were. The punk had vanished. Meryl quickened her pace but the sidewalk steepened and the climb to the corner left her panting. She leaned on her knees. Out of shape…getting soft…

"Nice view."

Meryl spun toward the voice, different from the first. Another young man, black hair full of dust and clothes full of stains, leaned on a lamppost, hand thrust into his pocket, writhing.

"Look, kid, I'm not looking for a date," Meryl said, disgusted. "I'm just trying to get home."

"Sure, I'll take you home," he said, and came toward her. "My mother'd love to meet a sweet thing like you."

"And then I'd get to meet you, too," said the first kid from behind her. "Twenty bucks for fifteen minutes. But with a sweet piece like you I'd only need ten."

Meryl glanced left, glanced right. The way south was too steep. North would only take her into the lowest part of the city. Cross the street, then west. Stay close to the curb, away from the doors and windows, watch for ambush. She slipped her free hand inside her cloak and walked as fast as she dared. Insults and vulgarities echoed from the buildings all around her.

More than two of them. Fine with her. She'd have to find a good defensive position before she ran out of breath and the punks chased her down. She ducked around a corner. Brick walls rose on three sides.

Dead end. How appropriate.

Meryl stopped at the center of the blind alley and dropped her suitcase. Two boys, three, four, then five, blocked the exit. All were armed. Her hands sought the closest derringers. She thumbed open the snaps. Silly boys, bringing knives to a gunfight.

"Aw, honey, you're not scared of us, are you?"

I've seen worse than this, Meryl thought.

"We're nice guys, once you get to know us. And you'll get to know us very well."

I've been through worse than this. Survived worse than this.

"C'mon, baby, share. Didn't your mama teach you it's polite to share?"

"Tell us where you live, maybe we'll teach her, too."

I won't be caught flatfooted. I won't be taken by surprise. I won't be bound and helpless.

"This one's fresh, I can smell it."

I won't wait for him, I won't depend on him, I won't be rescued by him.

"Aw, look, we made her cry."

"I saw her first."

"Whoever eats fastest gets the most."

And no matter what, I won't wish he were here now—

"Hold it, punks," she said.

"Hold this, you stuck-up bitch."

"Fresh meat gettin uppity."

"Little skank. Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Why, don't you boys know who I am?" Meryl thrust open her cloak. Five pairs of eyes widened as one.

"I'm Derringer Meryl," she said, and threw down.

---

_It has come to my attention, Meryl, that you wish to learn the fine art and science of firearms. Is this true?_

(Deep in the moment and full of awareness she slows her breathing, separates every heartbeat into a slow tolling like that of the massive city courthouse bell)

_Yes, Grandma, Meryl said._

_How old are you, child?_

_I turned thirteen, three days ago._

(Surprise is on her side but won't be for long. She's not exactly intimidating and she chose the derringer for its small size and light weight, not its stopping power)

_Your mother would say this is a skill inappropriate for a proper young lady._

_This is a dangerous world, Meryl said, and a lady, young or old, must be able to defend herself._

_Your grandfather would say that this time would be better spent on your studies._

(Her first round goes through the instep of the pocket pervert's right foot, the next through the fold of his pants between his thigh and his crotch. Both shots get his attention. She releases the expired derringer and for a moment it hangs in the air beside its raised and aimed sibling)

_I respect Grandpa's wishes, and I'll work doubly hard at school to make the time._

_Your father would say, Grandma said, that you should be learning his business to follow in his footsteps someday._

(The boys' makeshift skirmish line breaks under her steady fire. Smoking punk holds the wrist of a twice-perforated hand and she notes with satisfaction that he screams like a little girl. Two of the others are already in fast retreat, limping from the lead souvenirs she leaves in each of the boys' rumps. But in the corner of her eye the last boy)

_I need follow in no one's footsteps, Meryl said. Not my father's, not my mother's, not my grandfather's._

_Not even mine?_

(throws his knife at eye level, which is a problem because she could miss and put a bullet through his forehead, she's no killer so she waits, watching the blade spin through the air, until the angle is just right shootmissdamnshoot—_tink!_—and the knife bounces straight up)

_With all due respect, ma'am, no. Not even yours._

_Give me your hand, child._

(Exhilarated, reveling in her grandmother's imparted knowledge she empties three derringers at the knife and it dances like a drop of water on a hot griddle, the last shot splits it in half and the shards fall, useless. She draws again, aiming at the last punk's groin and the dark stain spreading there)

_Meryl obeyed, and exulted at the touch of the derringer's warm nickel plating._

_When you have earned this, Grandma said, it will be yours._

---

When the last punk had fled, Meryl held the spent derringer on her palm.

"Thank you, Grandma," she said. Disaster averted, Meryl shook herself from her trance and went about collecting her dropped weapons. When she bent down her bus ticket fell from her pocket.

Darn it all. Had to be close to seven by now. Long trip to Inepril but she'd be able to get some sleep.

Meryl plucked the ticket and her last derringer from the alley floor, and when she stood it was as if a flashbulb went off in her eyes. From the roof. Should've covered the roof…

Through darkening sight she saw the rock that struck her head bounce off a door and tumble down the stairs beneath it. There was a whistling in her ears, urgent and fierce, further and further away…

---

At some point, Milly stops screaming.

The gang's gigantic boss, more metal than flesh, inflicts the worst agony, and one after another, the men have their way with them. She spares a glance at her poor friend, but watching these thugs do to Milly what is being done to her is somehow worse than suffering in kind. She looks away, and doesn't stop screaming.

An eternity later the gang, sated and exhausted at last, withdraws, laughing and whooping like fans at a professional dodgeball game.

She's a mess. Stockings in tatters, tangled around her ankles. Blood and semen trickle down her lacerated legs. Bruised cheek, swollen lip. She searches the gaps in her teeth with a thrice-bitten tongue. She can no longer feel her bound hands.

A man approaches Milly. What happens next is hidden behind the curtain of her clotted black hair but her hearing is quite unimpaired. Milly makes a sound, her feet shuffle and twitch. Milly struggles, stops, still.

The man comes to her, grabs a handful of her hair, lifts her head. The knife across her throat is a blessing.

---

Their captors scatter when the instrument of their betrayal smashes through the saloon door. She sees her chance and thrusts her body over the bar. Milly follows. Good girl, that Milly. Keeps her head in a crisis.

Bullets fly and bottles shatter. She gets her hands around a shard of broken glass. Two more innocents in the bar, two more people who need help so she has to work fast. Milly has the same idea. But when the gunfire stops she knows it's too late. The first attacker comes around the bar.

He licks his pistol and takes aim. His first shot snaps Milly's head back. His second and third shots punch through her own chest. She falls back, letting her life's essence flow over her neck.

Idiot…I'm still breathing…

He amends his mistake. The knife splits her sternum, and knocks the wind out of her, forever.

---

The Bad Lads get away, and there's nothing more to be done. The steamer passes the edge of the canyon, and for a moment she feels as if she's flying.

Milly looks at her, face serene, tears alight under the brilliant moons. Milly nods, releases her hold on the handrail.

Understanding, she does the same, and takes Milly's hand in hers. It's a long way down.

---

At some point, bound and helpless under a sky the color of an infected wound, surrounded by armed men with mindless eyes, she wonders if the job really is worth her life. She hears the heavy report of a large caliber handgun, and stops wondering.

---

"Meryl? Meryl? Wake up, Meryl."

The section chief of the Disaster Investigation Division lifts her head from her arms and blinks her eyes. The taste of cheap glue fills her mouth. Three piles of sealed envelopes rest on her desk blotter.

"Hello, Karen," she says, and stretches. "What are you doing here so late?"

Karen puts her hands on her hips. "You work for me, remember? I have to set a good example." She glances at the clock on the wall of Meryl's office. "Except that my babysitter was expecting me an hour ago and that selfish lout of an ex-husband isn't answering his phone. So I'm cutting you loose for the night."

Meryl picks up her fountain pen. The document under her hands bears a jagged, wet smear of ink.

"These reports—"

"Will wait until tomorrow. Honestly, Meryl, you'd think this job was your whole life. Take it from a single mother of two little boys. It isn't." Karen taps her face with her index finger. "Interesting makeup job, by the way. You'll never catch a man looking like that."

The Chief brushes her cheek. Her fingertips come away black.

"By the way, Meryl, what were you dreaming about?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I heard you talking in your sleep. It sounded like you were saying 'Vash…Vash…' over and over again."

"Oh." Meryl nudges her left hand file drawer closed with her foot. Her copy of the latest issue of Tales of the Wasteland was tucked between Tabinsky, A. and Tertulli, F. Young Miss Tertulli was the current occupant of her old desk. "I don't know. I guess I've forgotten already."

"Honestly, Meryl, don't you know Vash the Stampede is just a myth?"

"Yes. Of course I do."

"Of course you do." Karen winks. "Just don't let me catch you reading on company time, all right?"

"Yes, ma'am." Meryl searches the walls of her office. Frames filled with honors earned reflect the dull light of the cheap bulb in her desk lamp. Her boss, her predecessor in this job, vacated the position when he died of a heart attack ten years ago. Karen put in a good word for her. That she was dating the Chief's boss at the time hadn't hurt, either.

Karen rolls her eyes and smiles.

"Whatever, Stryfe. Now go home."

"Yes, ma'am," Meryl says, and locks her desk.

In her apartment ten blocks from the Bernardelli Building Meryl shuts the door behind her. She crouches to pick up the mail and rifles through the envelopes. Bill, bill, may have just won a million double dollars, bill bill bill…

And a letter from her parents.

Meryl turns the battered envelope. Mother and Father live just across town, strange enough they'd send a letter. The address was right, but—a Promontory postmark? She drops her keys and the stack of mail on her endtable.

In the kitchen Meryl pores through the cabinets. Half a bag of rice, two bags of sugar and coffee. Some curry and cooking oil. In the icebox she finds some reasonably fresh vegetables and a package of chicken. Stir fry. Again. Meryl prepares her meal and eats it at the square kitchen table, alone.

Refreshed by a bath Meryl dries her hair. She glances in the mirror and plucks a gray hair from her scalp. She pushes on her pillowy cheeks, one adorned by a black smear that did not quite come clean. Crow's feet crease the corners of her eyes. She dresses in her old nightshirt, smoothes the fabric over the swivel chair spread that made its home on her hips.

In the living room she sits on the couch, thumbs through her trashy romance novel to the bookmark on page two hundred seventy-five. After reading the first sentence for the tenth time, Meryl sets the book on the coffee table. She grabs a throw pillow, holds it to her chest like a mother holding a crying baby.

Her reports tell the tale. Two of her people gone in a single month. One, lost in a vicious steamer robbery near Lottenberg Canyon that left two hundred dead, the other—her last communiqué placed her in LR. Since then, nothing.

That city was a ghost town now, full of feral pets and children, empty of all the adults who'd cared for them. Meryl reaches for the bottle of September Sauterne on the coffee table. She pours the wine into a glass that was clean three days ago, left it half-empty in a single long drink. There were things in the world to make one afraid, mysteries best left unexplored. Sending young people with more guts than sense into that wasteland of death and ignorance was her job.

For ten years now. Good God, has it been that long? An entire decade of hiring fresh-faced, bright-eyed children, pushing them out of the nest and hoping they had enough training to fly. Ten years of standing on the steamer dock, waiting for one, sometimes two of her kids to come home in caskets, signing the paperwork, handing the bodies over to the grieving parents.

Milly, her old junior partner, was wise to get out when she did. Found a good man, got married, eight kids in ten years. All that time she and Milly hardly ever talked, writing short letters and sending Christmas cards back and forth. She has the kids' pictures somewhere, tucked away in a shoebox with the rest of Milly's correspondence.

The last of Milly's children had been too much for her. Still, ten good years away from Bernardelli—Meryl almost envies her departed friend. Maybe she should take some time off and go see her old partner's kids, grace the children with a visit from their jolly old-before-her-time, overworked, underpaid auntie.

Why not, she thinks, looking at her closed bedroom door. The only man she'd ever loved was a myth.

Meryl squirms at the pain lancing through her chest. Too much curry in the stir-fry, maybe, but it was getting stale and it seemed a shame to let it go to waste—

The lance blunts itself into a heavy pressure and an ache that flows down her left arm.

No. No, no, no…

The section chief of the Disaster Investigation Division of the Bernardelli Insurance Society staggers to her feet, clutching her left arm as if it will drop from her shoulder. Phone. The phone is only a few steps away, that's it, one at a time. One at a time…have the operator send an ambulance… A weak, wayward step catches the leg of her coffee table. The sauterne bottle tumbles to the floor, filling the room with the scent of sweet alcohol that mingles with the ammonia stench of the fresh urine trickling down her leg. Her bladder had given way. How embarrassing…how embarrassing to be found like this…

She stumbles and falls. Pain grips her chest and arm, rising, rising on a ragged bluff to the edge of an abyss…too late, too late, and the phone might as well be a galaxy away—

---

And when her chest explodes, it's almost a relief.

Bereft of the strength imparted by her now silent heart, Meryl's legs buckle. The face of her killer is lost in the smoky glare of the twin suns but she knows the look. The tears on his face are not for her. The horror is.

That's all right, she thinks as her body pitches forward into the dust. Dying isn't so bad when you have something, someone worth dying for.

But as the world of the living goes dark she is seized by a cold regret, and the possibility she will bear this remorse into whatever destiny awaited her soul for eternity fills her with emptiness as real as the hole in her still and cooling breast.

Mother…Father…

---

And when she opened her eyes at last, Meryl tried to sit up but her head was full of red-hot broken glass and she sagged back onto the bed. From its metal hanger a bag of fluid emptied its contents drop by drop through a tube that disappeared under the sleeve of the loose robe she was wearing. A tangle of wires emerged through its wide neck and disappeared behind her head. A quiet beeping noise came from above, marking time with her heart.

Hospital, she thought. Whistles. The constabulary had found her first. Meryl sighed, full of relief and languid pleasure despite the searing pain behind her eyes.

To her right the window was open. A cool, almost chilly breeze full of flower scent nudged the gossamer curtains. Sunlight the color of a faded photograph filled the room. These were the one-sun days, when one of their stars passed in front of the other, bound together by gravity in a celestial hoedown.

Beside the window was a pair of chairs. Mother and Father sat there, leaning on one another, fast asleep. Their hands met over the arms, fingers intertwined.

Father needs a shave, Meryl thought, and though she remembered little from her Earth history classes one image came immediately to mind, as if she'd been transported across the years and light years to witness it firsthand, of how her ancestors harnessed the free flowing water of their world to generate power. Dams they were called, those walls of metal and concrete that held back the flood and raised up the land, but sometimes the force of rain and nature were too great and the mighty barriers gave way, unable to bear the terrible pressure any longer.

Like a dam Meryl's heart broke, and for a moment the pain of release dwarfed the jagged agony in her mind but the water rushed over the barren desert and filled the deep canyons and empty places the terrors of her nightmares had left behind.

When the water receded and she was able to breathe and speak, Meryl chose the only two words that made any sense.

"I'm sorry," she said, and waited for her parents to wake.

---

The Ship's outer door slammed into place like the stone lid of an old Earth pharaoh's tomb. A single sun dawn, so earthlike it made Vash nostalgic for the recreation deck, was rising. He smashed the travois and scattered the pieces, hoisted his knapsack over one shoulder, one of the water jugs on a rope sling over the other. The water was tasteless but free of poisons. There was no way Knives could've overridden Vash's program, but it was best to be sure.

Vash stepped away from the Ship and, squinting at the sun, thumbed his earring comlink.

"Laputa Base, Laputa Base, this is Wandering Kid, do you read me?" The crackle of static in his ear gave way to a familiar, friendly voice.

"Wandering Kid, this is Laputa Base reading you loud and clear."

"The knife has been sheathed. I say again, the knife has been sheathed."

"I understand, son. It's good beyond words to hear from you again. I hope you're right."

"So do I." Vash gave his friend and mentor an estimated time of arrival, pointed himself at the proper angle from the sun, and stepped forward. In all his life, he'd never felt so light on his feet.

"It's over, Doc," he said. "I'm coming home."

---

Author's Afterword

Well. Of all the chapters I've written so far this was the most problematic, and has been since the very first lines were typed. I'd have to say that at least ninety percent of my editing efforts over the last two years have been focused on this segment of Meryl's story. To tell the truth I still don't think I got it right, but this is the best I have. It's either publish or grow old trying to make it perfect.

I hope my warning at the beginning of the chapter was taken seriously. I've never agreed with the (apparently!) widely held belief in fanfiction that it's the author's duty to protect the fragile sensibilities of his readers, except in the broadest possible way with a content rating. In this chapter I've confronted some unspeakably ugly aspects of human behavior and I will continue to do so in later postings.

I offer no apologies. To paraphrase a great, albeit fictional, wise man, life is pain. Anyone who tells you different is selling you something.

On a lighter note, my thanks to all who've reviewed thus far: Aine of Knockaine, DeepRedSky, and peridot3783. Strong with the Force, are you!

Next: The Insurance Girls Gang rides again! Meryl and Milly go out on the town.


	5. Kisses, Part One

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Four – Kisses (Part One)

---

"Eat your breakfast, darling, before it gets cold," Mother said.

"Yes, ma'am." Meryl poured warm syrup over her pancakes and added a spoonful of banana chips from the hydrator. She considered topping the pile with half a can of whipped cream, the way she'd always liked them, but watching her parents move about the kitchen forced her to reconsider. There was enough sweetness in the room already.

At the kitchen archway, standing on the threshold as if taking command of all he surveyed, Michael Stryfe, founder of the engineering firm Stryfe Consultants, a man of rising reputation, known and respected by the city's giants of emerging science and industry, a man sought after for his sage and savvy advice, passed Meryl's mother as she prepared breakfast and, as he did so, patted her on the rump.

At the griddle, wielding a spatula like a conductor's baton, Madeline Stryfe, teetotaler, churchgoer, advocate for social justice and orphan's rights and, when fundraising for St. Teresa's was the task at hand, a sparkling socialite and speaker—in short, a model of modern civilized womanhood on any world in any age—cooed and wiggled her behind in response.

Meryl cut a bite of pancake with one hand, shaded her eyes with the other. Something in the water, maybe.

Father took his seat opposite Meryl's and scanned his folded newspaper.

"What are your plans for the day, Meryl?" he said.

"I thought I'd call on a friend."

"A young gentleman, perhaps?"

"A girlfriend, Mother. Milly Thompson. I haven't seen her since I returned to December."

"I think that's a fine idea," Father said. "Doc Trimbel said you were strong enough to leave the house."

"And Mrs. Wronski's been asking after you," Mother said. "You remember her, don't you? And her son?"

"I remember he had difficulty keeping his hands to himself." Righton Wronski, Jr., eldest son of December Academy's most popular mathematics teacher, had pursued Meryl for a year and a half. It would've been only one, had Righton graduated on schedule.

"I'm sure he remembers you, too," Father said. "Broke his nose, as I recall."

"I didn't hit him that hard," Meryl said. She'd been grounded for a month but the look on his bleeding face when he hit the floor was worth it.

"Mrs. Wronski tells me he's changed. He's quite handsome, you know."

"I'm so glad I didn't do any permanent damage." Meryl forked pancake into her mouth. "And anyway, I'm spoken for, remember?"

"Mind your table manners, darling."

"Yes, ma'am." Meryl put her hand to her mouth. "Sorry."

"And anyway," Mother said, "a little competition might make your young man try harder. If you like, I could call and arrange a—"

"No, Mother. Don't even think about it."

Mother carried her own plate to the table and sat down.

"Very well. It seems to be your poor mother's lot to enter old age unappreciated, and I'll just have to adjust as best I can."

"You should've been an actor," Meryl said, carrying her empty plate to the griddle. "Would you care for seconds, Father?"

"Yes, honey, thank you. Big day and—hard work ahead."

"Darling, let me do that, you come sit down."

"No, ma'am. You just sit there and act your age." For once. "Seconds?"

Mother shook her head. "I don't know where you two put it all."

"She has my metabolism, my dear wife."

"And your stubborn streak, my dear husband."

Why me? Meryl searched the ceiling for an answer. With a flick of her wrist she turned the rising pancakes. She counted to twenty and flipped two onto her plate.

"Give me your plate, Father." Meryl filled it with the last two. "What kind of work?"

"I'm taking the day off," he said. "I have some chores to catch up on here."

Mother, smiling dreamily, lowered her chin to her hand.

"It's past time you attended to those, my dear husband."

"Think you can teach an old dog some new tricks, my dear wife?"

"I do believe I can, Mister Stryfe."

"Why, Maddie Silverton, I had no idea you were so—knowledgeable."

Meryl's ears and cheeks were aflame. It had been many years since her parents had looked at each other like this but she didn't need those boring and euphemistically titled "Health and Family Planning" classes to know that she'd been the result of such a look.

"I'm beginning to get the impression," Meryl said, "that three's a crowd in this house today. Am I correct?"

"Meryl's a perceptive girl, isn't she, my dear husband."

"She takes after her smart and pretty mother, my dear wife."

"All right, all right," Meryl said. "I can take a hint." Getting out of the house had been her plan all along, but leaving her parents to their second adolescence would be a welcome fringe benefit. She finished her breakfast and moved to start clearing the table.

"Don't bother with the dishes, darling," Mother said as she grabbed the juice pitcher from Meryl's hands. "I'll take care of them."

"Don't you want me to help?"

"You've been an enormous help to me, Meryl my dear. Now go call your friend."

"But Mother, I—"

"You don't want to keep the poor girl waiting, do you? You're burning daylight, your grandmother would say."

Right. Meryl went to the phone and lifted the handset from its cradle.

"Hello, operator? Connect me to—hello, Mrs. Graham. Yes, I'm fine, thank you for your—what? Of course, I'm sorry, I know you're very busy. Could you connect me to Sydney-three-five-oh-five, please? Thank you." Connections clicked and popped through the background hiss of active circuitry.

"Hello, Thompson Farm."

"Good morning, ma'am. This is Meryl Stryfe of the Bernardelli—I mean, this is Meryl Stryfe calling for Milly. May I speak to her, please?"

"One moment, please." Footsteps faded, leaving only static. A loud call, indistinct. The handset on the other end scraped on something smooth as it was picked up.

"Meryl!"

"Hello, Milly."

"Oh, Meryl, it's so good to hear from you. I've been wondering all this time why you haven't called."

Meryl bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I've just been—I haven't been well recently."

"Oh, no…Meryl, are you okay? I wish you'd called me, I'd have brought you some chicken soup and homemade ice cream and trashy novels and kept you company."

"I'm sorry, really I am, but please don't worry. I'm fine now."

"I'm glad, Meryl." The phone was silent for a moment. "I've missed you."

Meryl put her hand over the mouthpiece. No sense in deafening Milly and her whole family with the sound of her heart breaking.

"I've—I've missed you, too. Hey, I almost forgot. I wanted to ask you something. It seems my parents want me out of the house today, and I was wondering if—"

"You could come have lunch with us? That's a great idea. And then maybe after that you and I could get all gussied up and go into town and do some shopping and go see a movie and then we could have dinner somewhere really, really expensive—"

"Milly—"

"And then we can come back to my house and have a pillow fight and eat ice cream and stay up half the night talking about stuff. How does that sound?"

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Talk so much without taking a breath." And read her mind, except for the pillow fight.

"I guess it's just my healthy upbringing. Farm work is good for the heart and the tummy. Speaking of which do you know where I live?"

"Judging by how long it took to connect the call, somewhere beyond the Third Moon."

"Not that far, silly. Get something to write on and I'll give you directions."

Meryl found a pad of paper and a pencil and drew while Milly spoke. Too far for a taxi, but this wasn't bad, an hour or so by jeep. She extended a line to the edge of the paper, made a right angle and marked the spot with an X.

"It's a big whitewashed three story house with lots of windows," Milly said. "You can't miss it."

"Great, Milly," Meryl said as she tucked the map into her jeans pocket. "I'll see you about noon."

"And not one minute before or you'll be eating with the hogs. Say, Meryl…do you ever miss it? Bernardelli, I mean."

"Sure, I do. I wake up every morning wondering how I can possibly live another day without Mark's lousy coffee or Karen's suffocating perfume or Leary trying to look up my skirt or any of the other wonderful joys of office life."

The circuit's thermal noise hissed in Meryl's ear.

"Really, Meryl? I thought you hated Mr. Leary's guts. Remember? You threatened to shoot his thing off in front of the Chief and the whole office."

"It was a joke, Milly. I was being sarcastic."

"Oh. Right. I knew that."

"Uh huh. And I'm a two headed thomas, sister."

"No, you just eat like one."

"And you just smell like one. See you in an hour."

Meryl hung up the phone and bounded up the stairs. Most of the clothing she'd left behind was still packed up in the basement but she'd never indulged in anything too expensive. Tonight she'd need an evening dress.

At her desk Meryl slipped the map into her pocketbook and thumbed the thick sheaf of bills inside. Thanks to luck, God, or the proper planetary alignment a Bernardelli payroll check for the exact amount of her back pay had arrived in the mail during her hospital stay. The envelope it came in had been plain and unofficial and had no return address. If Karen had anything to do with it, she'd owe her former colleague a tall apology and an even taller drink.

Whatever or whoever was involved, she had money to burn and burn it she would. She packed a change of clothes and other sundries into her suitcase. A quick change into her travel duds and another phone call later, she was ready.

"I'm leaving now, Mother," Meryl said, and kissed her cheek. "Is Father still outside? I need to ask him something."

"If it's about the jeep, darling, I think you'd better go talk to him. He has something else in mind."

Meryl opened the screen door, held it behind her until it gently touched the frame. If Father was planning to deny her the use even of that old rustbucket the whole day would be ruined. She'd never dare ask Mother's permission to drive her—

Convertible? In the driveway, Father leaned on the passenger side door of Mother's car. Except it couldn't be Mother's car because it was silver gray, not sky blue.

"What do you think?" Father said, waving his hand over the vehicle and grinning like a salesman. "Belated congratulations, Madame Valedictorian, Class of One-twenty-four. What's the matter, honey? Do you not like it?"

Meryl dropped the handle of her suitcase. In three steps she had her arms around him, her face buried in his shoulder.

"I take back every terrible thing I ever said or thought about you," she said.

"If only I'd known it were this easy," Father said. Meryl released her embrace and slapped his arm. He went to the driver's side door and held it open. "Your carriage awaits."

Meryl slipped behind the wheel and adjusted the seat. She pulled the safety belt over her shoulder and lap and snapped the buckle into place. Her eyes caught a glittering blur, followed it into her open hand. She slipped the key into the ignition and turned. The car roared to life.

Father shut the door.

"Don't hurry home," he said.

---

Sixty iles east of December, Meryl made the final turn north onto a ruler straight road. White gravel dust billowed from under the car. The alfalfa fields on her left were lush and green and cooled the air through which she drove. On her right, wheat and soybeans whizzed by in a regular pattern that made her dizzy if she stared at it too long.

On the crest of a gentle hill a dazzling point of reflected sunlight forced Meryl to drive with a hand before her eyes. The glare faded as she approached.

Meryl stopped the car at its source, an aluminum mailbox with THOMPSON stenciled on the side in black. She felt certain that, had she been standing on the Fifth Moon with a pair of binoculars, she could've seen it with no trouble.

The house Milly described stood at the end of a short driveway of packed earth. A blind man couldn't miss it, which was good, since, thanks to that gargantuan mailbox, Meryl had difficulty seeing beyond the blotchy afterimages the glare left on her retinas. She followed the drive to the house, parked, and killed the car's motor.

The only sound left was the delicate ring of the wind chime hanging from the veranda's roof. The air was filled with scents that evoked both memory and queasiness: vegetables, compost, baking bread and cooling pies, thomas feed and the end product thereof. Her grandparents had never kept pigs but the smell of both their food and their habitat were unmistakable.

Up the stairs, through the screen door and across the golden wood of the porch, Meryl found a brass key in the center of the front door. She spun it, and winced at the earsplitting clang of the bell.

The door opened to reveal a belt buckle the size of New Texas.

Meryl had never been self-conscious about her relative short stature. If anything being smaller than most girls her age had filled her with confidence in her real abilities, and as far as men were concerned, the bigger they were, the harder they fell. But this man, this giant before her, could've broken her in two with one hand.

"Hello?" said the giant, who turned his blue eyes left, then right. The plain chambray of his shirt stretched like the sail on a windsled when he shrugged his Atlas-massive shoulders. He shut the door, muttering something about crackers.

The water. Had to be something in the water. Meryl rang the bell. The door opened.

"Hello?" said the man, scanning the air over Meryl's head. "If that's you ringin my bell, Hap Fortinbras, I'll have your mum take a switch to your—"

"Excuse me, sir…"

"What? Hello!" A huge grin that reminded Meryl of Milly spread under the awning of his thick moustache. "There you are. Good day, miss. How can I help you?"

"I'm Meryl Stryfe, calling on Milly."

"Crikey," he said, slapping his forehead. "Of course, Miss Stryfe, we've been expecting you. Please come in. I'm Neville Thompson, Milly's dad."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Meryl said, extending her hand, a little afraid when his hand enveloped hers. She accepted his invitation to sit and make herself comfortable and only hesitated for a split second when Mr. Thompson offered a glass of water. On the way to the kitchen he paused at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

"OI, MILLY!" he shouted. "YER MATE'S 'ERE, LOVE!"

"Coming, Dad," came the faint reply through Meryl's hands, still clamped to her ears.

Meryl expelled a deep breath and relaxed. The day was hot, and despite the refreshing taste of her ice water—potentially deleterious effects on the mind notwithstanding—Meryl was worn out from the trip. She leaned back, and lost her balance just as her shoulders touched the padded back of the enormous chair.

From the high ceiling a quartet of wide bladed fans driven by a network of belts blasted air toward the floor. A faint scent of ozone and hot rubber, much more pleasant than manure and compost, followed it down.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

"Meryl!"

"Hello, Milly," Meryl said, standing. "Thank you for inviting me_eoorph!"_

"Oh, Meryl, I'm so glad to see you."

"Glad…see…too…"

"How was your trip? Were the roads good? Did you have any trouble finding the house?"

"Can't…breathe…"

"What? Oh. Sorry," Milly said, releasing her. Meryl leaned on her knees, gasping. If her friend had changed at all, it was only in her choice of clothing, a loose shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans. Otherwise, she was the same old Milly. Meryl thanked heaven for favors small and great.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Milly said.

"No, it's—no, you didn't hurt me at all." Meryl stood erect. "So tell me how you've been keeping yourself."

"Busy," Milly said. "There's always something to do on a farm."

Milly's father returned, extending a glass to her and to Milly.

"My beloved wife tells me lunch will be ready in an hour," he said. "Milly, your mum wants you to tend the thomases before then."

"Yes, Dad. Hey, Meryl, you want to help me?"

"Sure, I'd be happy to." When their water was gone, Meryl followed Milly out the back door and across a wide graded yard. The scent of the pigsty hit her like the wake of a passing sand steamer.

"Sorry about the smell," Milly said. "You get used to it after a few years."

"Great," Meryl said through her hand. Habit, as well as vanity, had compelled her to spritz a dash of perfume on her wrists before she left. She thanked heaven for vanity.

Milly stopped at a mountain of stacked fifty-poung bags of thomas feed and hoisted a sack onto each shoulder. Inside the barn, thomases—more animals than Meryl could see in the dark stables—grunted approval and anticipation. Milly poured the feed from the bags while Meryl used a pail she found in a corner.

When it was done Milly laid the empty bags in the corner of the barn near the door and flattened the sacks with her feet. She pointed at a pair of saddles resting on their wooded horses.

"The one on the right's yours," she said.

Twenty minutes later Meryl was goading her thomas, a mare named Winnifred, into an easy jog to keep up with Milly, who was guiding her own steed to the base of a long ridge north of the Thompson house. Milly had chosen a shortcut through a field of tall native whipgrass, and the plants lashed softly against Meryl's stockings as Winnie swayed through the thick growth.

"So, Milly," Meryl said. "Who owns all these fields out here?"

Milly laughed.

"Who do you think, silly? My family does."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Meryl, do you think any farmer would let us trespass across his property just to take a shortcut? If we were on another farmer's land without permission and he saw us, we'd be getting shot at right about now."

When Milly reached the end of the grass she spurred her mount into a two-legged hop. Meryl copied her, grateful to end the jogging cant that had always made her sick, and Winnie lit out like a sprinter at a championship track meet, spraying fountains of dust from her birdlike feet with every bounce. This was an animal bred for racing, or Meryl didn't know thomases as well as she thought.

Five hops to the top of the ridge and Meryl drew back on the reins. She and Milly were winded. The thomases weren't even breathing hard.

"That was fun," Milly said.

"Sure was," Meryl said. "Is this your favorite place?"

"Yes. Now listen."

Meryl obeyed, but all she heard was the wind in the pale grass through which they'd just ridden.

"I don't hear anything," she said.

"Exactly."

"So how is this your favorite place? Wasn't the wasteland quiet enough for you?"

"There are different kinds of quiet," Milly said. "This is one of my favorite kinds. Here, I don't have to be afraid of wild dogs, bandits, or bounty hunters. I don't have to listen to my boss nag me about paperwork—"

"I wasn't that bad."

"Or hear those damned water pumps or my parents or—well. Anyway, I just wanted you to be here, Meryl." Milly's thomas turned under a twitch of her bridle. "You're only the second person I've brought out here."

"Second person? Who was the first?"

"We'd better be getting back."

"Wait, Milly…"

"We have to go, Meryl. Aren't you hungry?"

---

For Meryl, lunch proved to be an exercise in nostalgia and humility.

The scent and flavor of the food, simple and nourishing, recalled fond memories of meals at her grandparents' house when she was a little girl. Grandma always helped her with the knife and fork, guided Meryl's hands with her own as she cut her food into bite sized pieces. Sitting at the table on Father's old December phone book, swinging her legs as if she'd never touch ground again—those were the things she remembered most.

Nostalgia. And humility.

On the edge of her makeshift booster seat, Meryl squirmed. The edge of the phone book dug into her thighs and the bottom rung of the armless chair was a hair lower than her toes could reach. She picked up an oversized butter knife, half expecting to see in its mirrored surface the ponytail she'd grown out to be just like Grandma.

Now that's a knife, she thought.

When the conversation turned to farm business, Meryl learned that Mr. Thompson had been a client of her father's firm.

"Your old man designed some water pumps for me about ten years ago," Mr. Thompson said as he spread butter around the middle of a steaming biscuit.

"How about that," Milly said around a full mouth. "Small world, ain't it, Meryl?"

"Millicent, watch your manners in front of our guest."

"Oh, Mom, Meryl's seen me act lots worse than this."

"Milly Alice…"

"Yes, ma'am."

In her travels Meryl had seen much of the world and talked to many of its people. Though they spoke a common language, those who lived outside the Cities spoke with accents they'd acquired from their ancestors. Some even treasured their manner of speaking as a matter of pride and distinction. Milly must've lost her parents' accent when she moved to December, but now Meryl couldn't be sure if Milly was saying "Mom" or "ma'am" or, even more charming, "Mum".

"Those pumps were one of the best investments I ever made," Mr. Thompson said. "Be sure to tell your father for me."

"Certainly. He'll be pleased to know one of his designs is doing well."

"Actually, I've been meaning to get hold of him again. I'm going to need some better harvesting equipment in a couple of seasons."

"He'll be happy to talk to you, sir."

"Well, he's a difficult man to talk to, begging your pardon, Miss Meryl. Got a waiting list six months long, I heard. I don't suppose you could talk to your old man and have me bumped up the line a little, say three or four months—"

"Neville," Mrs. Thompson said in a tone of voice Meryl recognized from her own mother. "We do not discuss business during meals."

"Now, Victoria, there's no harm in—"

"Especially questionable business. Now you let our guest alone, right quick, d'y'hear?"

"Yes, mother." Mr. Thompson scratched his head and grinned, revealing to Meryl the primary source of Milly's personality.

"I don't know if I can help, sir," she said, "but I'll talk to him."

"Would you care for seconds, my dear?"

Meryl patted her stomach. "No thank you, Mrs. Thompson," she said. "I'm quite full."

"But you've hardly eaten. No wonder you're so small."

"I take after my parents, ma'am. They're both about my size." Like normal people.

"Then I suppose we Thompsons have been blessed. Or maybe it's something in the water, eh?"

"Yes, ma'am," Meryl said, discomfited. Had she made that remark out loud? If so, Milly's mother had sharp hearing. Or maybe that was an attribute of all mothers.

"I have to go down to the south quarter, mother," Mr. Thompson said, rising from his place at the table's head. "Quent's having trouble with one of his—"

"Don't you bother lying to me, Neville Thompson," Mrs. Thompson said. "You and Quent Fortinbras both know your way around a pint."

"Victoria Springs," he said, "I've told you before. He has a well that's been acting up—"

"And all his hands are on holiday. Heard that one before. A well? I daresay it's a well. A bottomless well of beer, I'll warrant."

"No worries, love." Milly's father placed a tender kiss on her mother's lips. "I'll be home before second sunset and stone sober."

Milly excused herself from the table, intent on some task. Meryl stacked the dishes while Milly's mother covered and put away the food. With the help of the phone book Meryl leaned over the three sinks and started the dishwater.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Meryl," Mrs. Thompson said.

"Likewise, ma'am," Meryl said. "Milly's talked so much about her family I feel as if I know you."

"How nice. I feel the same way. My little Millicent has told me so much about you."

"Not everything, I hope."

"Whatever do you mean, dear?"

"Well…" Meryl said, discomfited again by—something in Mrs. Thompson's voice she couldn't quite identify. "I just mean—I'm not sure I was the greatest boss in the world sometimes."

"I doubt that's true. Milly spoke highly of you in her letters, saying how close you two were. Were you always together?"

"Yes, ma'am," Meryl said. "Except for when I went home, of course, but that was only when we weren't on a field assignment."

"What was your last assignment like?"

"All I can say, ma'am, is that I'm glad it was our last."

"You don't say. Tell me more."

Meryl concentrated on drying the plate in her hands, unable to shake the feeling she'd just been given an order.

"It was—difficult, in a lot of ways. We ran into some bandits, ended up broke in the middle of nowhere, Milly and I had to take extra jobs just to buy groceries, even though I told her time and again—"

"That must've been terrible. I can't even imagine." Mrs. Thompson lifted a knife from the water and examined its surface. "I'm close to my little girl, too."

Meryl laid the dry plate on its stack. The rinse water was empty of dishes.

"I know parents are never supposed to choose favorites among their children but in Millicent's case it happened so naturally I just gave in. My other children were fairly easy to read, but with Millicent I always knew, even when she was a baby, even before she made a sound, when she was hungry or thirsty, happy or sad—even what she was thinking." Mrs. Thompson angled the knife in her hands, as if to see Meryl's face reflected in its surface. "Just as I can almost tell what you're thinking right now."

"Mrs. Thompson," Meryl said, "I—ma'am, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Millicent is special, Meryl. I'd like to think it came from me, but her father is special in so many other ways I can't flatter myself. Ever since she was born I've felt a connection to her I've never felt with anyone else, not my sons, not my other daughters, not even my husband, and all this time I thought it was my mind seeing into hers. I'm telling you all this because three weeks ago I learned I was wrong."

Mrs. Thompson reached in front of Meryl, lowered the knife into the sink.

"Milly was only letting me in. Now she's shutting me out."

The back door opened, closed. Footsteps rang down the hall.

"Are you finished, Meryl?" Milly said. "I'm done with my chores, Mom, can we go now?"

---

Author's Afterword

Next: Kisses, Part Two. The fun continues as the girls paint the town red…and Milly makes a confession.


	6. Kisses, Part Two

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Five – Kisses (Part Two)

---

Twenty minutes outside December, Meryl made the final turn toward the city. The miniature satellite receiver worked just fine, and the music, an afternoon bluegrass program, was loud and lively.

Meryl let her mind drift back with the dust in the car's wake. What Mrs. Thompson had said frightened her far less than what she'd left unsaid.

Not unsaid. Unspoken.

Milly was only letting me in, she'd said. Now she's shutting me out. After that had come words, clear as day though Meryl hadn't heard them with her ears, words that popped into her head as if she'd read them from a sign in front of Mrs. Thompson's face.

_And you know why._

"It's nice," Milly said.

Meryl turned down the receiver's volume.

"What did you say, Milly?"

"I said it's nice that you and Mom got along so well. I was really hoping you would."

"Yeah," Meryl said. "So was I."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

The music gave way to a news report on the results of the Federal elections. Meryl listened, disappointed. Had she been out of the hospital in time she'd have voted for the other guy but the woman who'd won, yet another in a long line of "law and order" political types, didn't seem too bad. In her campaign the new chancellor-elect had promised to extend the influence of Federal law enforcement further south with the aim of destroying the last of the slaver gangs. Her proposed increase in Plant access fees would be spent on building up the Federal Cavalry and Marshal's Service. That could be good or bad for Father's business, depending on how generous the new government was with its contracts.

"Who owns this place up ahead?" Milly said.

"That's my grandparents' old farm," Meryl said.

"Wow, really? Can we stop? I want to see it."

"Milly, I don't think we have time—"

"Come on, Meryl, pretty please?"

"Oh, all right." Meryl slowed, turned the car into the packed earth driveway in front of the barn.

"It's beautiful," Milly said as she got out.

"It's not that much," Meryl said, doing the same. "A house, a barn and forty hectacres."

At the edge of the old alfalfa field across the highway Milly knelt and crumbled a chunk of dirt between her fingers.

"The erosion's pretty light," she said. "With a little tender loving care, this land would produce an excellent crop."

"How? No one's worked the land for fifteen years."

"That's the idea, Meryl." Milly stood up and brushed her hands together. "The trick to getting crops to grow here isn't water or fertilizer. It's getting the soil to accept something it's never known before. People take what they need from it, and what they take has to be replaced by the planet's own natural processes. That takes time."

Milly spread her arms as if to embrace the horizon.

"We forget this world had its own ecology long before we ever got here. One day we'll understand its ways well enough to work with it, not against it. This field isn't dead, Meryl. It's being reborn." Milly walked back to the car. "Let this soil lie fallow long enough and it'll grow anything."

Surprised and touched, Meryl absorbed Milly's lecture. Milly really was much smarter than she or Vash had ever thought. Smart, and full of depth and feeling—

"Maybe you and Vash could plant it together when you get married," Milly said.

—and insane ideas.

"What! What on earth are you talking about?"

"Well…that's what you're going to do, isn't it? You're going to go meet Mister Vash, talk him into coming here—"

"Milly…"

"And you're going to get married and move into this house and raise a family—"

"Milly, stop! I haven't even thought about moving into my grandparents' house, much less about getting married, even less than that about a family."

"Oh," Milly said. "Don't you think you'd better start?"

"Ugh. For heaven's sake…"

In the cool concrete canyons of midtown December Meryl found an open parking space in an all-day lot near the center of everything worth seeing and doing in this part of the city. Meryl gave the attendant a twenty.

"I'll need to do some shopping before dinner," she said. "Did you bring some evening clothes with you? Something besides coveralls, I hope." The restaurant Meryl had in mind for tonight would turn away anyone not appropriately attired.

"I do wear girl clothes on occasion," Milly said.

"Good, then you won't mind helping me shop."

The Lachesis Boutique, two blocks west of her father's office, was her first stop. The sales clerk offered them refreshments, including all the ice water they could drink free. Milly asked for tea and made suggestions while Meryl flipped through the hangers on the formal wear rack.

"What about this one, Meryl?" Milly said, pointing with her pinky at what looked to Meryl like the empty skin of a yellow-feathered bird.

"I'm looking for a dinner dress, Milly, not a Halloween costume." No self-respecting woman would be caught dead in a rag like that. "I'm looking for—something like this." Meryl lifted the dress from the metal rail and held it up.

"That's just like what you're wearing now, only black," Milly said. "How boring."

"Boring is dignified. Boring is elegant."

"Boring is bad, Meryl, bad. Wait till you see the dress I brought."

A frisson of dread passed through Meryl as she headed for the dressing rooms. Though she cared nothing for the opinions of others and would go anywhere with Milly no matter how she were dressed, Milly's taste in formal wear was a mystery. Perhaps it was better that way.

When she emerged from the room Milly was waiting for her.

"At least if your outside is boring, you should wear something like this under it," Milly said.

In her absence Milly had discovered the lingerie section. Between Milly's raised hands, suspended on a waistband no wider than a needle, Milly held a triangle of silk the color of the December Fire Brigade's water pump engine.

"Milly, put those back."

"They're only panties, Meryl."

"More like barely there. Why don't you look at shoes or something?"

"Look, Meryl. Your boyfriend would love this."

"For heaven's sake, hold it lower, people outside can see it."

"See what?"

"That—that—"

"Chemise?"

"I know what it is!"

"You're embarrassed. That's so cute."

"I am not!"

"Which, embarrassed or cute?"

Over Milly's protests and needling, Meryl purchased her little black dress. Outside the boutique she suggested having their outfits dry-cleaned. Milly agreed, and after they surrendered their evening clothes to the capable and professional hands of Deng's One-Hour Dry Cleaning and Dim Sum to Go, Milly offered an idea.

"Can we go to a bookstore next?" Milly tucked her laundry ticket into her pocket. "I've been away so long I'm behind on my comic book collection."

"You collect comic books?"

"You bet. I have every issue of Tales of the Wasteland except number one, every issue of Dilbert's Double-Dime Stories, every issue of Space Cowboy—"

"Okay, I get it. What does your mother think of you spending all your hard earned money on stuff like that?"

"Oh, she doesn't mind, as long as I keep up with my chores. Besides, she's a humongous fan of Old Earth, New Earth."

At the Whaddya Read bookstore, over the top of a hardcover book of poetry she thought Mother might like, Meryl watched her former junior agent flip through the glossy, garish comics in the magazine section.

It's as if she doesn't remember any of it, Meryl thought. Mourning was a long journey, perhaps lifelong, and Milly was acting as if she'd never taken those first terrible steps in that abandoned house in Tonim. Grieving for her own grandparents had taken months and after all these years Meryl still suffered pangs of loss. Years after the funeral on Grandma's birthday Meryl would find Father in the garage, bent over his workbench, his face in his hands. Those were the times she'd felt closest to him—

"Do you always read upside down?"

"What?" Milly's face was half a feel in front of hers.

"Your book," Milly said, grabbing it from Meryl's hands and turning it over. "It's upside down. Do you always read upside down?"

"No, smarty-pants, I certainly don't." Meryl followed the big girl to the front counter and waited for the clerk to ring up her purchase. Once Milly's pile of comic books were paid for and bagged, Meryl tapped her shoulder.

"Wait outside for me, Milly," she said. When the bell rang and the door shut on its slow spring, Meryl went to the back of the store, beyond a pair of swinging doors under a sign that said ADULTS ONLY, and made another selection. She left the store with her second purchase wrapped in brown paper.

"Forget something?" Milly said.

"Oh, you know, I remembered that my father wanted the latest issue of Scientific Earthling, so I was just picking up a copy. You know, just to be nice."

"Oh. I just figured that you wanted something from that back room and were too embarrassed to buy it in front of me."

"Milly Alice," Meryl said, "I most vehemently resent your quite unfounded implication that I would stoop so low as to indulge in such vile—"

"So you did go back there, didn't you?"

"I did nothing of the sort. I am not that kind of woman."

"What did you get? Come on, lemme see."

Meryl hugged the bag to her chest. "A magazine and a book of poetry, that's all."

"If that's all it is, you won't mind me looking at it, will you?"

"I most certainly will mind."

"Then you can't prove it, can you?"

"I have nothing to prove, so just—"

"Meryl's a pervert, Meryl's a pervert…"

"I am NOT!"

Back at the car, Meryl opened the trunk. She let Milly put in her books first, slammed the trunk closed an instant after she threw in hers.

"Want to go see a movie?" Milly said.

"Sure," Meryl said. "We have time to kill before dinner."

"Great. I get to pick which one."

"Now just a minute…"

"If you don't let me pick I'll tell your mother what you bought."

Meryl ground her teeth, weighing the pros and cons of the matter. Particularly the cons.

"Fine," she said. "You can pick the movie, but not because you're blackmailing me or anything, because there's nothing to blackmail me for, you understand?"

The Midtown Magic Picture Emporium was three blocks north. The one sun days were slipping into the past, and though the full rage of the twin stars that both granted and destroyed life had not yet been brought to bear, the afternoon was warm enough and their exertions great enough that the theater was a welcome oasis of almost frigid air. A red-coated usher escorted them to their seats.

The lights went down and Meryl spent most of the preview reel lamenting the price of their refreshments. The root beer she'd ordered was pricey enough, but for what she'd paid for Milly's popcorn the theater manager should let them take their seats with them when they left.

When they emerged from the theater evening vermillion slanted through the city. Meryl checked the Federal Building clock. Their table would be ready in an hour and it was time to collect their evening clothes and freshen up. Meryl hoped Milly's taste in clothing and food was better than her taste in movies. Her friend spun and capered on the sidewalk in front of her, waving an imaginary sword of light.

"Milly, people are staring," Meryl said.

"If you strike me down I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine!"

"Would you please at least stop making those silly noises?"

"No, Luke, _I_ am your father!"

"For heaven's sake—"

"Come on, Meryl. When's the last time you had more fun at the movies?"

"Several occasions come to mind." Meryl liked movies as much as anyone, but what they'd seen made no sense, as though it were three or four randomly chosen films cut up and spliced together. "Why didn't we see that documentary instead?"

"_Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?_ Saw that in history class. Strike me down with your hatred, and your journey to the dark side will be complete!"

"I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

"I hope you're still taking me to dinner, because I'm starved."

"As long as I never have to see _A New Empire Strikes the Jedi_ again, I'll feed you as much as you want."

"Spoilsport."

"Freak."

"Look who's talking."

"Stop that!"

After collecting their clothes from Deng's Meryl led Milly to a public bath close to the restaurant. The dress Meryl had chosen, plain black with a high collar and long sleeves, was a little tighter than she wanted, but that was all right. Chasing the world's most fearsome outlaw across half the planet's surface had kept her figure slim. A touch of eye shadow, a bit of blush, a shot or two of perfume and her pair of lucky earrings later, Meryl was ready. She left the fifty-cecent towel fee on the drowsing proprietor's counter and waited outside.

When Milly emerged from the bath, only one word came to Meryl's mind.

"Beautiful," Meryl said, awed by the depth and degree of the transformation Milly had wrought on herself.

"You like?" Milly spun on one toe of her high-heeled shoes. The sandworm silk of her dress, revealing in all the right if suggestive places, shone like blue gunmetal under the newly lit lamplight. Her diamond stud earrings sparkled. The tall girl struck a pose, showing a flirty hint of leg through the side vent that went up, in Meryl's opinion, a half-ich too high.

"I like. Milly, you look terrific." Meryl crossed her arms. "You look better than I do. I hate you."

"Now, Meryl, don't hate me because I'm beautiful."

"I hate you because you're dragging your butt." Meryl handed Milly her half-coat and wrapped her own stole over her shoulders. "Come on, we're going to be late."

The Gilded Cage, the most exclusive and expensive restaurant in December, occupied the entire roof of the city's second tallest building. The handsome young elevator operator gave Milly a full up and down look. Meryl got a polite nod.

Hmph, she hmphed. Maybe she should've dressed more like Milly.

At the top a dignified waiter in an immaculate suit stood behind a podium. Meryl gave him her name and his face brightened.

"Ah, yes of course, Miss Stryfe," he said, plucking two menus from a stack. "Please follow me." The waiter led them through the restaurant, past small tables for two and large round tables for families, all surrounded by people speaking and eating in genteel quiet. The sky was darkening, and everywhere uniformed servers moved among the diners, lighting the candles that populated each table and the ornate candelabras on the walls.

On the raised veranda near the outdoor observation lounge a simple square table bore a RESERVED sign on its perfect white tablecloth. Their waiter removed the sign and they were seated.

"Gosh," Milly said, wide eyed at the hemispherical glass ceiling and the polished brass frame that held it. "When I said someplace expensive, I didn't think of this place. How did you get a reservation?"

"A few years ago," Meryl said, "my father was offered a contract by the owner of the restaurant to improve the kitchen appliances and electrical system. He agreed, but instead of money he asked only for a standing reservation at the best table in the whole place. Now my father entertains clients here."

Milly nodded and looked at her menu. "There are no prices on anything, Meryl."

"If you have to ask, you can't afford it. Order anything and everything you like. My treat."

Meryl selected a wine, first course and main course that appealed to her, a mixture of sweet and spicy dishes. Milly ordered a more eclectic spread, surprising Meryl with her comfort and ease in pronouncing the names of the more exotic foods.

The waiter poured Meryl's wine, while another left a silver tea service on a cart near Milly's right hand.

"You're abstaining tonight?" Meryl said.

"One of us has to stay sober," Milly said.

"Milly, don't deny yourself on my account." Meryl had planned on having to lead a tall, heavy, inebriated woman back to the car and to her house. She wasn't thrilled at the prospect, but she'd had practice.

"Not at all, Meryl. This is a special night. You shouldn't have to hold my head over the curb and watch me throw up. Remember that time in Inepril, after you-know-who's party?"

Meryl nodded, queasy at the recollection.

"Tonight is just as much for you as it is for me," Milly said. "Thank you for inviting me here."

Happiness rolled off the ex-junior agent in waves and swells, gratifying Meryl and leaving her pleased in its wake. Perhaps Milly knew best after all, and this was a night to forget pain and sorrow.

Before and during the first course the conversation turned to small talk about politics, the price of water, and the future beyond the benevolent auspices of the Bernardelli Insurance Society. Surrounded by quiet voices and attentive ears, Vash was never mentioned, by unspoken agreement.

For her main course Meryl had ordered a delicious if challenging meal requiring something other than the normal utensils. She picked up the chopsticks and settled them in her right hand. A few bites later Meryl spotted a delectable piece of glazed pork and switched hands to get a better angle on it.

"I've always wondered how you do that," Milly said.

"Do what?"

"Switch hands like that. I can't even use a knife and fork without concentrating."

"I'm ambidextrous," Meryl said, and to Meryl's increasing surprise, Milly's face was coloring.

"Really, Meryl? I guess I never knew that about you."

"What are you talking about, Milly? You just said you've always wondered how—"

"I mean, all this time we were working together, I never thought…" Milly had her hands in her lap. A shy smile played on her lips. "Can everyone like you use both hands?"

"Everyone like me? What the—oh. Oh, God…"

"I sure admire you, just coming out and telling me like my middle big sister Eleanor did. But she's right handed, come to think of it."

"Milly…"

"Hoo Boy, is your boyfriend going to be surprised—"

"Milly! For the last time, I am not—like that—that way, I never was and I never will be. Furthermore I am not a pervert, I never was and I never will be, so get your sick little mind out of the—"

One of the things Meryl had noted about this establishment on her few previous visits here was its acoustical qualities. Any voice above a whisper was reflected and dispersed by the curved roof to every corner of the restaurant. Meryl found it strange on a night like this, when every table was occupied, that the Gilded Cage could be silent. Or maybe, the angry and shocked diners staring at her told her with their eyes, it wasn't strange at all.

"Sorry," Meryl whispered, waving apology to the other guests. "Sorry about that."

"Ignore those people," Milly said. "Some folks have trouble with anyone who's too different from themselves."

"Milly. Will. You. Please."

"Gosh, Meryl, you're turning purple."

For dessert Meryl chose a banana sundae, smaller than she liked but made with the finest, freshest ingredients, giving the dish the gustatory qualities of a rare delicacy. Between bites Meryl caught Milly stealing furtive glances at her between mouthfuls of mille-fuille.

Meryl impaled her with an angry stare: Stop that.

Milly narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue: Make me.

After dessert Meryl ordered a local sherry and suggested to Milly they go outside to the observation lounge. She set her glass on the concrete edge and pulled her stole around her shoulders. Milly thrust her arms into her half-coat.

"Chilly this evening," Meryl said, regretting her decision to go without stockings.

"Sure is," Milly said. Meryl's desire to speak—and Milly's perverse desire to tease her—gave way to a companionable silence.

December, first of the Seven Cities, spread like puddled gold downward into the shipfall scar and outward into the wasteland. From this high perch the boundary between civilization and desolation, except for a stray nugget of light here and there, appeared as hard and clear as a line on a map. Beyond that boundary, regular cavalry patrols circled the city, ever alert for the first hint of a threat to the brilliance. Within the light the officers constabulary walked their beats in ceaseless vigil, directing the lost and protecting the innocent.

Some, like the new chancellor and her party, wanted to extend the comfort and safety of the cities as far into the wild as possible, to bring Promethean fire to the cruel and savage world onto which their ancestors had fallen—and to the far more cruel and far more savage world their descendants had made on its surface. Others, such as the noble men and women of the Federal Cavalry and law enforcement, were content merely to keep the line as clear and defined as possible and sometimes surrender their lives in the pursuit of that contentment. Still others lived to blur the line for their own profit, seeking legitimacy in the light, abandoning integrity in the dark. Against them, and against all others, stood those who didn't know or care that the line existed at all.

In the boardrooms at Bernardelli the work was all about the bottom line. For her, it was about protecting the property of innocent people. Tragic, to spend a lifetime building a house or a business or a farm only to have it all swept away by random, violent acts of God or man. Insurance could only compensate for what was destroyed. Meryl had found honor in protecting what was created, and if by their actions she, Milly, Vash, and poor Mr. Wolfwood had allowed even the tiniest creep of civilized life into the moral moonscape of the wasteland, all the pain and loss they'd endured would mean something. And if they hadn't, it might still mean something.

Yet in doing battle with a monster, Meryl had risked becoming a monster. Standing on the precipice of disaster, staring into the moonless abyss, Meryl had seen only herself, staring back.

"I don't hate you," Milly said.

Startled, Meryl looked at her friend. "What did you say?"

"I said I don't hate you." Milly pulled her half-coat over her breast and crossed her arms. "I've tried not to think about it. I haven't even wanted to think about it. But now I know. It wasn't your fault."

"Gosh, Milly," Meryl said, forcing a smile. "I sure admire you, just coming out and telling me like that."

"I'm serious. I still don't understand why Nicholas had to do what he did, and the harder I look for an answer the less clear my sight becomes. All I know now is that _he_ did what he could, and that's enough." Milly looked at her. "It has to be, doesn't it?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Meryl allowed a suggestion of anger to rise in her voice. "Are you implying that he could've done more?"

"No. Yes. Heck, I don't know." Milly threw up her hands. "There I go again, trying to wrap my mind around everything that's happened, and I can't do it."

"Then let me help you, Milly. Vash has saved more lives than you can possibly know. That's enough for me. Hell, it's more than enough, it's everything. Sometimes we have to settle for being alive and grateful for what we haven't lost. You haven't lost your family. You haven't lost your home." Meryl touched Milly's arm. "And you haven't lost your friends."

Milly accepted her words with a subtle tilt of the head that built to a full nod.

"Talk about switching places," Milly said. "I thought I was supposed to give the pep talks."

"Sorry. You seemed to need it."

"We should go," Milly said. "It's getting late and I don't want Mom and Dad to worry."

In midtown December the real parties were just getting started, and Meryl and Milly, back on street level, wove through the growing evening crowds. After a bejeweled matron's plump elbow came within an ich of loosening her front teeth, Meryl sought out the only island of stability amidst the streaming crowd and slipped her hands around Milly's arm. A passing city constable touched his nightstick to his hat and bade them good evening, then spun his weapon and badge of authority on its lanyard out and back into his hand with a juggler's skill.

Past Third Street, the throng thinned out. During the day this could be a friendly and hospitable part of town. Independent manufacturers and artists would show their wares in an ongoing street fair, and one didn't notice the signs of increasing age and decay in these, among the eldest of December's buildings. But when the suns went down, a different class of merchant plied its trade here.

Young women and young men—some little more than children, to Meryl's dismay—were staking out their claims on the sidewalk, garish and immodest flesh and blood billboards advertising the oldest and most desired product since the beginning of time.

Meryl had no wish to pass judgment. Their particular avocation was legal almost everywhere, and where it wasn't legal it was tolerated, to the considerable enrichment of the local lawmen and politicians. But last week two young ladies of the evening had been found dead—bloody, messy dead—in an alley only a few blocks from here. Selling oneself had its own price.

Meryl squeezed Milly's arm and pulled her forward, trying to ignore the shouted propositions and murmured consummations.

"Are you okay to drive?" Milly said when they made it to the car.

"I didn't have that much to drink," Meryl said, stumbling over a seam in the parking lot concrete that may or may not have been there.

"But you're smaller than me, so alcohol affects you more."

"Now look who's talking. You don't see me puking my guts out, do you?"

"No, but I've seen you after a few drinks, and you look just like that now."

"Says you." But—Milly was right, of course. No sense in ending a fun evening with a fiery, violent death. She drew the keys from her purse and tossed them into Milly's hands. Milly squeezed herself behind the wheel. Meryl flopped into the passenger's seat and draped her stole over her bare legs.

"Not as roomy as the Vashmobile, is it?" Milly said.

"No, but it's faster, more fun to drive and it doesn't complain."

"Should I put the top up?"

"You'd have to fold yourself in half to drive."

"It won't be very warm."

"I'll be fine."

"No, you won't." Milly took off her coat.

"Milly, please, you don't have to—"

"I don't mind the cold, Meryl. It'll keep me alert on the way home."

Meryl held still while Milly draped the garment around her shoulders. She pulled the sleeves over her chest.

"Thank you," she said, feeling warmer than the half-coat could account for.

"You're welcome." Milly started the car. "Meryllium Falcon, ready to launch!"

"Milly, get us out of here!"

---

Author's Afterword

Next: Kisses, Part Three – Meryl and Vash have a meeting of the minds. Meryl and Milly—well, they get to know each other better. I can't explain it, you'll just have to read it for yourself.


	7. Kisses, Part Three

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Six – Kisses (Part Three)

---

"Do you believe in God?"

Milly drew her spoon from her mouth, looked at a point on the ceiling.

"I don't know," she said. "I guess I never really thought about it. What about you?"

Meryl scooped the last bite of ice cream out of her bowl.

"I suppose so," she said. "Not as much as my mother does, but yes." Meryl reached across the bed for the half-dallon bucket of rocky road Milly liberated from the freezer. Plenty left, but the wine was getting low.

"What about your dad?" Milly said.

"My father believes in hard work and low taxes," Meryl said, dumping a scoop of the frozen confection into her bowl. She plucked the bottle of wine from the nightstand, filled her glass halfway.

"Just like my dad," Milly said. "On a farm this big Sunday's just another workday."

Meryl sat cross-legged, resting her elbows on a pillow with the letter B cross-stitched on a corner of the linen pillowcase. Beatrice, Milly's eldest sister, was a doctor in September City and would arrive in a couple of days to help with the harvest. Judging by the vast plain of mattress around her and Milly, Beatrice was even taller than Milly was.

"Everyone needs a day of rest, Milly. Even Bernardelli gave us time off."

"To tell you the truth I kind of miss the Society. Traveling around, seeing the world…"

"Getting shot at, taken hostage…"

"Meeting new people, helping others in need…"

"Dodging bullets, running for our lives…"

"Compared to the fields that job was a great big vacation."

"More like a great big headache."

Milly bounced into a sitting position and reached for the bucket. Grumbling, Meryl raised her wineglass to cushion the effects.

"Hey, quit hogging the ice cream," she said.

"Eat faster."

"If I eat any faster I'll get a headache." Meryl rubbed her eyes and yawned. Why such overnight stays were called sleepovers when no one actually gets to sleep was a mystery. Milly looked ready to go all night long.

"How about a game of chess?" Milly said. "I'll spot you a knight."

"You'll spot me more than that." Maybe if Milly gave up her queen…

"I'm not giving you my queen."

"I wasn't asking for it, now was I?"

"You were going to."

"No I wasn't."

"Yes you were."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Not."

"Too."

"Not." Meryl had considered dropping Milly off and going straight home. But if her parents' behavior at breakfast was any indication of their subsequent actions—well, there were certain images of her mother and father Meryl didn't want to have. And if they hadn't even made it to their bedroom—

"Meryl, what's wrong?" Milly's voice changed. "That face you make…"

"Nothing, Milly. I'm sorry, I'm just tired."

"And you did say you've been ill, didn't you? Sorry about that. I'm just so excited to have you here." Milly dropped the spoons into the empty half-dallon bucket and collected the bowls. "Breakfast's at six o'clock sharp, if you want to join us. Me, I think I might sleep in a little."

"I might be gone before you wake up, Milly," Meryl said. "Tomorrow's Sunday." She doubted Mother would mind too much if she slept in, but Mother would enjoy the company.

"Then I'll say my goodbyes now." Meryl braced herself for the Bear Hug of the Century, and was astonished when Milly only covered Meryl's hand with hers. "I had a nice time tonight."

Moved, Meryl could only copy Milly's gesture.

"We'll go out again soon," Meryl said. "I promise."

"Just us girls?"

"Just us girls."

"Good night, Meryl," Milly said, rising from the bed. "And don't stay up too late reading your dirty book."

"Good _night,_ Milly." When Milly was gone and the bedroom door was closed. Meryl reached for the lamp on the nightstand. With a click of the switch the room darkened.

Milly was right to suggest leaving when she did. When she and Milly arrived Mrs. Thompson met them at the door and gave Milly a gentle scolding for being late. Meryl assured Mrs. Thompson that Milly was a skilled driver and explained that their evening together had left her a little tipsy, whereupon Mrs. Thompson delivered another lecture on the responsible use of alcoholic beverages.

Meryl winced at Milly's elbow to her shoulder, and was about to follow her friend inside when she felt Mrs. Thompson—holding her back, somehow. She turned to face Milly's mother: tall and slim in a peasant blouse and skirt, suntanned and hardened by a lifetime of labor in the fields. She could've lifted Meryl with one arm but it was not physical strength that held Meryl fast on the screened porch. It was her eyes, aquamarine in color, vivid and terrible to behold only a few hours before, now veiled and muted like moons behind the clouds.

I'm sorry, Mrs. Thompson said without words. I'm glad Milly has a friend like you.

After that silent message Meryl was released, free to breathe again.

The Second and Fourth Moons should be up by now, Meryl thought. She climbed out of bed and drew back the heavy drapes over the south window. Pleased, Meryl thrust her hand under the bed and into her sack of purchases. She felt around until she found the second bag of thick brown paper. Meryl slipped under the covers, turned onto her stomach and pulled the blanket over her head.

The Untold Stories of Vash the Stampede blared the comic book's title. Under the words was a man, muscled as a sand steamer fireman and with a look of maniacal hatred on his face, standing atop a pile of debris from which protruded metal beams and bloodied human limbs.

Meryl's heart pounded. She'd loved this book ever since middle school, when a classmate at Our Lady of Love and Peace had slipped her a copy in exchange for her lunch money, loved it even after she was caught reading it in class. Puerile filth, Sister Catherine had called it, after every paddling.

Puerile filth. Meryl opened the cover.

Darn, she thought. The book had declined in her long absence from its readership. The first story, Vash and the Two Milkwives of Maybel Town, was a disappointment. The steamy romance novels she occasionally enjoyed had better dialogue than this garbage. Still, the artwork was good. The splash page for the climactic scene showed a Vash that looked more like Milly's father, a giant who could tear a thomas leather-bound phone book or chew tenpenny nails, at the top of a high leap over a barricade of angry, bewildered townsmen. Long blond hair streamed from the caricature Vash's head. An obscene leer spread across his otherwise handsome face. And under each arm he bore a young woman, one screaming herself faint, the other faint with joy, happy to be leaving her fleabite of a town at last in the arms of the only man she'd ever loved.

Meryl ran her finger down the paper center of the cartoon Vash's exposed chest. At least the artist got one thing right.

---

In the Ship's cybernetics lab just aft of bulkhead seventy, Vash held his arm rigid on the worktable, willing the glass eye in his left palm to close.

"What do you think?" said the designer of his new arm.

"I think you have way too much time on your hands, Doc." Vash willed again. The pseudoderm lids twitched but didn't close over the lens.

Doc set a cup of coffee near Vash's right hand and took the stool beside him.

"I've been working on this prosthetic for fifteen years," Doc said. "You shouldn't expect to control it fully in an hour."

Vash continued his exercise, and after ten more failures Doc took pity on him and touched the retract stud on the wrist. The glass hemisphere pulled into his palm and the fake skin closed over it. The seam, contact surfaces nanosculpted to intermolecular tolerances, was invisible.

"How does it feel, having a left arm indistinguishable from a normal arm?"

Vash blew on the hairs. Goosebumps rose on the skin.

"Wonderful, Doc. I can't thank you enough."

"You're welcome. I figured it was about time you enjoyed some normalcy."

"The Humanoid Typhoon is looking forward to retirement." Maybe he'd live in Inepril and get fat on Gram's salmon sandwiches. The city council certainly had been nice to him, would see turning him in for the bounty as contrary to their interests.

The entire ship moved, as if it were falling, then stopped.

"I've been meaning to ask you about that, Vash." Doc drained his cup of coffee. "Now that you've dealt with Knives, will you give serious thought to my suggestion?"

"Doc…"

"Now, don't get me wrong, son. If anyone on this world deserves a rest, it's you. Twenty million people will owe their lives to you and never know it. But I and the skeleton crew left on this Ship won't be able to keep it upright forever. And I won't be around forever, either."

Vash sighed heavily. "It's more complicated than that."

"In what way?" Doc turned from his task.

"Um." Vash examined the contents of the laboratory, inventoried the entire room with a sweeping glance, but there was no place to look that he didn't see Doc's intense stare. Somewhere out there was a dark haired insurance girl.

"I see," Doc said, comprehension dawning on his round face. "Someone from the Ship? Not Jessica, I take it."

"No. Not Jessica." Vash described Meryl and how they'd come to meet. When the story was over Doc laughed, slapped his knees and jumped from the stool.

"I'm happy for you, Vash. As I've said, no one deserves it more. But if this is to be done, it'll have to be soon." Vash assured Doc that he understood. Doc wished him good night and left the laboratory.

Back in his quarters, Vash dressed for bed. It wasn't as if Meryl were the hottest girl on the planet, or the prettiest, or even the nicest. Meryl Stryfe was brash and annoying, dedicated to the point of obsession, and gifted with a stare that made him feel like a paramecium in a Petri dish. Most men would question his standards of beauty, if not his sanity.

Then again, Vash thought as he lay down, most men had not seen what he'd seen in Keybas.

---

He should've known.

Every group of kids had its troublemakers, and this bunch outside Keybas was no exception. His experience with children over the years had taught him the aspects of their behavior and demeanor to watch out for, to spot the first inclinations to criminal intent and stop them before they went too far.

During his regular sentry duty he'd looked in the window and found three of the kids' beds empty. Suspecting foul play he'd searched the house and found three boys bunched together outside, fighting over a crack in the bathroom wall.

Little punks, Vash thought. The short insurance girl and her partner had worked hard all day to feed, water, and put to bed all these kids. Now all Meryl wanted was some time alone to rest and bathe. Apparently for these miscreants that was too much to ask. In a commanding voice he made his presence known.

"Get lost, broomhead," said the biggest boy, obviously the leader.

"Yeah, we were here first," said the second.

"Come on, Neethan, it's my turn," said the third.

Vash allowed that he was unaccustomed to being addressed in so discourteous a manner and demanded they give up their illicit activities and return to bed.

"What'll you give us, loser?"

"Yeah, finder's keepers, losers pay cash."

"Oh, yeah…you can sell me insurance anytime, baby…"

Offended by the lad's suggestion that he, Vash the Stampede, was anything less than a perfect gentleman, he naturally refused payment of any kind.

"Think again, pervert."

"Yeah, you want a peek, you pay up."

"And maybe if you give us enough we won't tell her it was you peeking and not us."

Vash looked at his wallet, empty of cash as outer space was of air. The little brats had skinned him alive but at least Meryl would be able to bathe in peace. Time to head back. Wolfwood was taking the next watch in an hour.

The smudge of light on the wall opposite the crack filled Vash's vision.

No, Vash thought. He was a perfect gentleman. He was a perfect gentleman and if Meryl caught him violating her privacy she'd hurt him something fierce and those little mercenaries would sell him out just to watch her do it. He'd paid enough already.

Paid more than enough, in fact. He was entitled to his money's worth, was he not?

Vash crouched and put his eye to the crack.

How about that. The little insurance girl liked bubble baths. Darn it all. Whatever the third boy had seen was hidden under mounds of suds that glistened under the weak light over the mirror. But such a look of peace and pleasure was on Meryl's face that he was transfixed. She'd never smiled like that before. Never thought she had it in her.

Meryl lifted her arm from the water and hung it over the edge of the tub. She snapped wet fingers and bobbed her head to a tune only she could hear. She surrendered to the music, hummed, then sang the melody without words. Lovely voice. Vash resolved to let her use his portable stereo and give her some real music someday.

The insurance girl's singing was interrupted by a deep squeal of skin on porcelain. Meryl slipped and went under the water. She reemerged, spitting bubbles from her lips and wiping them from her eyes. Darn it all, she was going to have to come out of there sometime. This city girl who wore earrings to a gunfight didn't strike him as the type to accept being pruneified no matter how much she enjoyed a bath. Maybe right about—

Now. Meryl dunked herself, broke the surface, and smoothed hair and water from her heat pink face. She reached for the towel, and boy oh boy this was it this was going to be—

Crap. Clingy suckers, those bubbles.

Meryl wrapped the towel around her body, tiptoed to the bathmat in front of the sink. She wiped a clear spot on the mirror, took another towel from its rack and shook it through her hair.

Vash lamented the money spent. Even a New Oregon peep show was better than this. His knees ached and Wolfwood was—

Waiting. Waiting for this moment.

Meryl had dropped the towel. Steam rose from her lean naked body. Goosebumps speckled her pink-as-sunset skin. Eyes closed, head tilted back, she let moisture run between her breasts. Muscle flowed under her flat belly with every breath.

Worth it…worth every penny…

---

He's not what she expects.

She's a proper, civilized woman, a dedicated professional, not given to stampeding into a man's room when she hears something out of the ordinary. What else did one hear from the Humanoid Typhoon? But such a commotion merited a closer look. She would be failing her employers if she didn't keep him out of trouble.

She's a proper, civilized woman, not given to staring at a half-dressed man in his own room.

Did this villain have no shame? The nerve of this goofy gunman, showing off his body, as if she weren't there—

Impossible. Impossible, to bind metal to flesh and not know pain with every movement. Scar tissue and steel. How he must suffer, even now.

He allows her to approach, his face neutral but full of intent. She plunges her hand through inhibition and doubt, grazes the valley between the muscled planes of his chest.

Her hand wanders, and where it passes the scars and steel vanish. He is all that remains: unmarred, perfect.

---

Can you forget my scars? he asks the insurance girl as he passes through the wall like a mist and surrounds her with arms of flesh. Can you forget? he asks as he lowers her to the bathroom floor and onto the fallen towel. Can you forget, Meryl Stryfe of the Bernardelli Insurance Society, what you see on the outside, all the horrors and insults my enemies have left on my body? Can you forget the laughing, bumbling fool of a pretender I've had to be to protect my life and the lives of others?

Born within time, can you forget that you will die?

Please say yes.

---

Yes, she answers. Yes, Vash, I can forget. I can forget you're the most wanted man alive, I can forget that somehow you were part of what happened to July and Augusta, some part of you I'll never understand or reach.

I can forget everything, she gasps as he enters her. I can forget if you help me. I can forget the pain and it's gone, nothing left but heat and silk oh God

"Yes."

I can forget, make me forget, please

"Vash."

I'm lost, lost in the light

"Vash…"

Your eyes and heart afire

"Vash…"

In the light fading dissolving dying

"Vash!"

Meryl clutched her pillow to her chest, breathing like a thomas run hard. Her head pounded, her heart throbbed, but it was not the rapid pulsing of either that filled her with pleasure but the deep and satisfying earthquake of contractions somewhere south of her belly button.

She hadn't had a dream like that since high school. Cute guy, that captain of the Academy dodgeball team. She turned onto her back. That broomheaded idiot was going to pay for this—

Meryl gasped, sat up and drew the covers over her chest. Milly stood in the bedroom doorway, swaying like a whipgrass reed in the wind.

Meryl had seen Milly asleep on countless occasions but on none of those occasions had Milly shown any inclination to walk in her sleep. And even if she had, Milly had never been so forward as to disturb Meryl in her own rest.

Milly entered the bedroom, hopping from foot to foot in a walk like that of a small child. The mattress sank when Milly sat on the edge of the bed.

"Big big sister," Milly said, her voice high and meek, her eyes open but heavy lidded.

Meryl had heard that waking a sleepwalker was a bad idea, that the shock of being awakened and finding herself out of bed could provoke a violent or unhealthy response. But Milly didn't seem anxious or upset. She just sat there, swaying, blinking her eyes at what she saw in her dreams.

"Big big sister…"

Meryl leaned over her legs, rested her chin on her hands. She'd never been a heavy sleeper but recent events compelled Meryl to appreciate all the sleep she could get. This could go on for the rest of the night.

"It's me, Milly," she said. "It's Meryl. Remember?"

"No…" Milly said. "No Meryl. Who's Meryl, Bea?"

Meryl rubbed her eyes. Fine, then. If she had to be Beatrice, she would be Beatrice.

"Just playing a game, Milly."

"Oh. I like games. Wanna play chess, Bea?"

"No, Milly, I don't want to play a game now. Your big big sister is very tired and needs to sleep."

The sway in Milly's body slowed.

"Sorry, Bea," Milly said. "Always in the way, I know…"

Meryl sat up straight. One technique that all Bernardelli managers learned was that of talking up a junior employee who lacked confidence in his or her abilities. In all her years with Milly she'd never had to use it. Until tonight.

"You're not always in the way," Meryl said.

"Always underfoot…can't do anything right…"

"Milly, that is not true. You've been a great help to me."

"Really?"

"Really. You're a good girl, Milly. Don't ever forget it." Meryl's heart sank. How many attagirls had she ever given her junior partner while they worked together? Not many. Milly had never needed them.

"I'm a good girl." Meryl was pleased when the hint of a smile creased Milly's mouth. It faded. "Then…why?"

"Why what, Milly?"

"Why do they go away? Why did he go away?"

"Who? Who went away?"

"Promised to come back…promised cross my heart…hope to die…hope to die…"

Meryl had seen Milly in grief. The hours she'd watched her junior agent crying for Mr. Wolfwood had been terrible to bear. But nothing prepared her for the quiet wail of despair that seemed to rend all of Meryl's senses at once.

"Promised…made me promise…why…tell me why…"

"Milly—Oh, Milly, I don't know."

"Don't go…please don't go…don't leave me…"

Meryl could bear her friend's crushing sadness no longer. She had to act, and if that meant waking her up, so be it. She scooted closer and held Milly's arms.

"Milly, listen to me. Will you listen to your big sister?"

"Yes," she said. Her face blank, voice neutral again.

"I don't know why. I don't know why about much of anything, and what I do know I can never tell you, for the protection of you and of everyone I love. What I can tell you is this. It's over, Milly. He will never hurt anyone again. Vash has seen to that. He promised me he would, and I believe him."

Milly waited. Meryl made a decision.

"I have a confession to make. Everything you said at my grandparents' house, remember? It's all true. I'm sorry I denied it, but it's true. That's exactly what I want. That's all I want. Even now I don't know if it will happen, but when I see him again I'm going to be very persuasive. Do you understand?"

"Yes…"

"I've seen enough death and dying. I want to see life and living, and I want you to see it, too." Meryl took Milly's hand. "It's time to move on, sweetheart. Grieve and move on, because I can't bear to see you like this anymore. It's what he'd want. Maybe not now, maybe when you're truly ready, but it's time to start."

Meryl rose to her knees.

"Milly, you're my best friend in the whole world, and I love you. We've been through hell together and I'll never—oh, damn," she said, overcome. "Now look at what you made me do."

"Don't be sad…big big sister," Milly said. "I'm sorry…won't make you sad anymore."

"You'd better not," Meryl said, sniffling. "I'm only your sister, but that doesn't mean I can't turn you over my knee, you hear me?"

"Yes…"

"Now, don't you think it's time to go back to bed?"

Milly didn't move. Well, if Milly was waiting to be carried back to her room Milly could sit here all night. She was going back to bed—

"Kiss me goodnight…" Milly said.

Meryl sat back, nonplussed. Months ago that request had come from the orphans at Keybas while she put them to bed and though she'd felt awkward and out of place she'd granted it, bestowing a hug and a kiss on any child who wanted or seemed to need it. Never in her life had she hated being an only child more.

Meryl leaned forward, put her lips to Milly's cheek. Milly swayed, waiting.

"Other side…"

Meryl put her hands on her hips. Good Lord, if getting kids to bed was going to be this much trouble Meryl wasn't sure she wanted any part of motherhood. Would she ask for a glass of water next? A trip to the potty? But Meryl closed her eyes and pressed another kiss to Milly's other cheek.

As Meryl drew back, she felt something—two somethings—soft and warm brush her lips. Throughout Meryl's body spread an uncontrollable glow of heat, as if she were an iron ingot in a blacksmith's furnace. Milly bounced to the bedroom door. Her footsteps thumped on the hallway floor.

Maybe I really am ambidextrous, Meryl thought.

Helpless and convulsed with silent laughter she threw herself backward onto the bed, pressed her face into her pillow, pounded the mattress and kicked the sheets until, breathless and sore, she could laugh no longer.

---

On the Ship, Vash stretched and yawned.

By far that was the most relaxing and restful sleep he'd enjoyed in many days. The sheer sweet momentum of it kept his body loose and unwilling to obey his commands, but Doc would have things for him to do while he was here and it was best to get to them as soon as possible. Vash raised his head and when he pulled himself up, he felt moisture where none should've been.

He wondered where it came from. And the more Vash wondered about it, the less he wanted to know.

"Aw, man," he said, flopping back on the bed. He made a mental note, adding laundry to his list of things to do.

Undressing proved to be a sticky business. That little insurance girl was going to owe him, big time.

---

As it happened, Meryl found little time to spare.

The harvest was not busy only for farmers. The explosive growth of arable land hectacreage and the paradoxical slow advance of agricultural technology made harvesting labor intensive, and the cities emptied the sons and daughters of the latest generation of farmers into the cultivated countryside into which they were born.

Meryl, being one generation removed from the need to walk the fields and wield a scythe, was, according to tradition, exempt. Despite the need for laborers the cities had to be kept running. For her, the city's labor crisis was an opportunity, and she relented under the plain logic of Father's arguments. Her old office, a converted broom closet, was made ready, and amidst the never quite gone scent of dust and ammonia she bent to her labors as if putting her back to a hand plow.

The days and the nights rolled by, unstoppable as the spinning of the planet that defined and shaped them. Work and family sliced time into routine, routine into ritual that exorcised the demons of Meryl's nightmares and filled her sleep with empty rest.

"No nightmares at all, darling? Be honest."

"No, Mother," Meryl said, drawing the brush through her mother's golden hair. "No nightmares at all."

"At least you're sleeping well. What a blessing that must be."

"If it were up to Father, I'd never sleep again." But overtime was overtime and she could use the money.

"Must you leave? You're welcome to stay, you know."

"Yes, Mother. It's something I have to do."

"A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do, right?"

Meryl rolled her eyes. That stupid phrase had been Grandma's own pat answer. She hoped Mother would offer more insight on a subject she'd wanted to bring up since her visit with Milly.

"Mother, why did I never—"

"Why did you never have any brothers or sisters?"

"Yes, ma'am," Meryl said, again astonished at the perspicacity motherhood seemed to bestow on those women brave enough to accept it.

"Well, it wasn't for lack of trying."

"Mother, please…"

"I'm sorry. Wasn't in the cards, I suppose. You were the first girl born to a Stryfe in five generations, and—well, maybe we used up all our luck on you. But your father and I wouldn't have traded you for any ten boys ever born, Meryl, and though she and I didn't agree on much, your grandmother felt exactly the same way. And don't you forget it."

"No, Mother." Meryl wrapped her arms around Mother's chest and kissed her cheek. "One more thing I've been wondering about. I can't help noticing that you've never asked me why—"

"Why you came home? For the same reason any child does, my darling. To be taken care of. Now go on, your father's waiting. Don't stay out too late. Your bus leaves at six."

Under the light of all five moons the Land Rush Highway was as clear and safe as a midtown sidewalk during lunch hour. Meryl could've driven the route blindfolded but eschewed such a stunt in favor of admiring the curious coloring that made each moon's reflected light distinct. Maybe they were as alien to this world as people, she thought. Just as alien and just as marooned.

The great magenta eye of the Fifth Moon, distinct in its own unsettling way, followed Meryl to the homestead. She parked her car beside the old jeep in the driveway. Inside the house Meryl climbed the fold-down stairs to the roof. Father sat on a low wooden bench Grandpa had made before she was born.

"Hello, Father."

"Hello, Meryl." A crunch of ice. "Beer?"

"Thank you," she said, accepting the cold, wet bottle of Kuroneko. Kuroneko. Strange name for a beer. She supposed it meant black cat, judging by the absurd logo on the label. The seal cracked with a hiss. She drew a long pull. "How long have you been out here?"

"Not very long. Getting the house into shape, just in case. Termites got to the sofa but I can fix that." He gestured with his bottle. "You'll want to store your car in the barn. I'll keep the engine oiled and the battery charged."

"Thank you, Father."

"I should thank you. You've been an enormous help to me these last two weeks."

"I was glad to do it."

"Then why—no, I'm sorry. You have your reasons and I respect that."

"I'm not leaving forever. I'll be back now and again."

"Your mother would like that."

Meryl set her bottle on the roof at her feet. Though the sky was awash in moonlight the brightest stars pierced the glare.

"Mother and I have been talking," she said. "We've discussed my behavior of recent weeks and we both agree that it has been lacking in respect and civility."

"I see," Father said. "And have you decided on a course of action?"

"We have. In fact, Mother and I have reexamined my decision to terminate your employment, and we agree that it was rash and ill-considered."

Father stared at the empty field beyond the back of the house. Only a tightening of his jaw muscles betrayed his emotions.

"The vote was unanimous," she said. "We've determined that it is in the best interest of this family, especially of its most junior partner, to continue you in your former position."

Meryl put her arms around her father's shoulders. His face was rough with stubble, and the kiss probably felt better to him than it did to her, but that was the point, wasn't it?

"You're rehired, Father," she said.

Father blinked his eyes rapidly as he struggled against his tears and lost.

"You haven't done that since you were eleven," he said.

"Really?" she said, and kissed his cheek again.

"Really. Time has no pity on fathers of daughters."

"It has even less pity on certain daughters of certain fathers." Meryl held him as if she might be swept away in a typhoon at any second. No matter what, her father would be there for her all his life.

"Getting late, honey," he said.

"How many of those have you had?"

"A few."

"Then I'm driving back."

"Let's get your car into the barn." Meryl finished her beer, Father finished his, and after her Meryllium Falcon was safely docked, Meryl guided the old jeep toward December. The touch of night air on her face was as intoxicating as a dozen cold Kuronekos.

Up in her room Meryl checked her luggage once more and was convinced she'd left nothing behind. She dressed for bed and looked out her window. The homestead lay on the desert like an uncovered jewel in the sand. A couple could make a real family there, just as her grandparents had.

Meryl lifted the envelope on her desk. Yesterday, nine months after she'd mailed it, her letter had arrived. Father had given it to her unopened.

"Nothing there I need to read anymore," he'd said. "Old news anyway, right?"

Meryl fingered the dried and curling stamps. A careless coffee stain had blotted out half her parents' address, but some enterprising post handler a few stations down the line had gone to the trouble of reconstructing it in pencil. The envelope was yellow at the edges.

Old news. What words of wisdom did she have for the future?

Walk your own path with your head held high, that much she'd said. Advice Meryl had tried her best to live by, advice well intentioned, offered by a sweet old man in Promontory. An old man and his wife who'd let their son go to live his own life, convinced they'd done their best for him. Did they now live with the knowledge that their son might be a marked man, that he might be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life? Did they now stand at the door, waiting for him to return?

Meryl tore the envelope in two and didn't stop tearing until the letter was reduced to confetti.

"Old fool," she said, "how can my parents live through me if I'm dead?" Meryl swept the fragments into her wastebasket and went to bed.

---

Author's Afterword

I hope this chapter was as much fun to read as it was to write. Thank you for sticking with me this far!

Next: The moment you've been waiting for…and one that Milly will dread. See you next time!


	8. Fruit of the Vine

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Seven – Fruit of the Vine

---

The evening shuttle from Little Jersey arrived in New Oregon an hour behind schedule. Few of the passengers complained, their faces pressed to the portholes, gaping in wonder at the Ship that fell from the sky.

Meryl was the first to tear herself from the spectacle, having seen—and felt—this artifact of their ancestors hit the ground like a whole other planet. All that mattered to her was that whatever mysterious Lost Technology magic that held the thing upright kept working. She changed clothes and packed, and as she maneuvered through the passageways the crewmembers she encountered favored her with approving glances.

On the way down the escalator she searched the steamer dock, but he was nowhere in sight. Not a problem. Hunting him down the first time had been half the fun, except for almost being killed and a half dozen other terrors Meryl had allowed herself to forget.

Lost in thought she stumbled at the bottom and was caught by a stranger's strong hand. When she stood up her protector had disappeared into the milling crowd. Meryl thanked the man in her thoughts and headed for the nearest restaurant. He might be in either a diner or a saloon, stuffing his face or pouring alcohol down his prodigious gullet.

But this was New Oregon, part of the Polo family's fief that spanned half the Columbia Territory. Here, everything was for sale. She didn't like to think of where else Vash might be.

Her first reconnoiter of the eating and drinking establishments on the city's man thoroughfare turned up nothing. No surprise. Vash had to be in some sort of disguise or costume; no man she'd seen bore any of the more obvious marks that distinguished the Humanoid Typhoon. If Vash were hiding himself he'd made himself invisible to her eyes, too.

The falling night was dry and hot and she was thirsty. At the last reputable-looking restaurant on the main thoroughfare she sat at the bar and ordered ice water. It tasted like heaven. If Vash didn't turn up soon she'd have to find a place to stay.

When the bartender brought her bill Meryl opened her purse. Between the bills she found a folded square of gossamer white paper.

_Cascades Hotel. Ask for Mr. Smith, room 333. Destroy this note. V._

How the hell does he do that? Meryl wondered as she wadded the note into a ball and ate it. It tasted minty.

As fast as her pumps and her bit-too-tight evening dress would allow, Meryl walked to the Cascades Hotel, trailing her suitcase behind her. By the time a bellhop showed her to the door she was breathing heavily. She knocked. The door opened. It was he. His hair was darker and longer, and his clothes were plainer, but it was he.

"Hi," Vash said, extending his hand.

"Hi," Meryl said, taking it.

The room was a full suite, furnished and filled with all the comforts of a plutocrat's mansion. In another time, in her role as an agent of the Bernardelli Insurance Society, the cost of such accommodations would've sent the bean counters at the home office into apoplexy. Tonight it was expected and appropriate. Meryl tossed her purse and stole onto the couch and let him lead her into the bedroom.

"Do you want to freshen up?" Vash said. "You should see the bath, it's amazing."

"And let you ogle me through the keyhole? I don't think so."

"Nothing I haven't seen before…"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing."

Meryl pushed him back to the single enormous bed. He sat down.

"Why do I put up with you?" she said.

"I could ask the same question."

"I didn't give you much of a choice."

"You smell nice."

"For someone who's just traveled two thousand iles, you mean?"

"We've both come a long way. And here we are," Vash said, "right where we left off."

"Not quite." Meryl unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. She took his hands and guided them under the hem of her dress.

"This is where we left off," she said.

---

Overslept again.

Milly spun her legs over the edge of her bed. Sitting up sent a spear of pain from her forehead to her back to her tailbone. Through the window opposite the foot of her bed the suns poured energy into her room. She held her face in her hands as if to cool it in the perspiration on her palms.

Late for breakfast the third time this week. Already her brothers, sisters, and cousins were in the fields, gathering this season's harvest and sowing the next. Why didn't anyone wake her up? Didn't they need her help?

Milly shuffled down the hall to the bathroom and attended to her morning business. Before she flushed she examined the water.

Being late wasn't always bad. She returned to her bedroom and left her pajamas in a pile at her feet.

---

"How do you do that?" Meryl said.

"Just good with my hands, I guess," Vash said. "You're beautiful. Who knew you liked such racy underwear?"

"Milly's idea. Now just hold your thomases, this clasp is complicated. You might need a little help."

"What, with this?"

"Hey—"

---

Guess I don't know my own strength, Milly thought, letting the broken leather strap slide through her fingers. The saddle could be fixed but it would take time, time Milly didn't have. Now she'd have to walk out to the northeast quarter to help Dad with the last of the wheat. She didn't want to walk that far, not carrying a forty-poung scythe, not with a barn full of healthy thoroughbred thomases and two brand new saddles nearby, but there was no point in fumbling around with another and breaking the belly strap in a fit of foul temper.

Milly guided Winnifred back to her stall. She would walk, and that's all there was to it. She'd hefted that stungun all over hell's half hectacre and it weighed almost as much as she did. The exercise would do her—them—good.

Darn it all, Milly thought when she got to the tool shed. No one had left anything out for her. She tried the door. It opened onto a darkness she had no desire to enter.

---

"My goodness," Meryl said.

"You're not so bad yourself," Vash said.

"Not scrawny. Not in the least little bit."

"You're the first woman to express an opinion. At least to my face."

"Am I the first woman to get this close to you?"

"Well…not exactly."

"That better not mean what I think it means," Meryl said.

"She lives near Kasted City," Vash said. "I'll introduce her to you sometime—"

"Vash, don't make me hurt you."

"Wow, did you know your nipples get hard when you're angry—ow!"

"So do my fists, broomhead. Now, are you going to get down to business or do I have to get violent?"

"Since you put it that way…"

"That's better," Meryl said. "No, wait, start with the right one…"

"How's that?"

"That's even better…oh, that's good…"

---

This was not good.

How things had come to this on the best farm in the world, Milly couldn't understand. The output valves on the irrigation system had been neglected, and now they were as hard to open as a jar of Mom's marmalade. The seeds Eleanor had laid down would be swept away by the wind if she didn't get the water flowing by noon.

She'd wanted to help Dad bring in the wheat. That was a job for a grownup. It wasn't her fault no one left a scythe or a weed cutter or so much as a pair of shears for her. It wasn't her fault that no matter how hard she tried she couldn't make herself go into the tool shed. When had she become such a fraidycat?

Dad said it was all right, that she should be in bed anyway but if she were going to be so pigheaded she might as well irrigate the northwest quarter.

Opening the irrigation valves was a job for a child. Her niece Sondra could do it. Too bad she wasn't here. Sebastian, her middle big brother, wanted his daughter to follow in his footsteps and become a geologist, so she was away at an expensive private school. He and his wife were visiting her.

Getting big for his britches, Bastian was. Too good for simple, hard work anymore.

Not me, Milly thought as she threaded the handle into the pump. I can do it all. Because I want to.

Milly leaned on the handle and slipped. The bare end of the pipe cut her palm as it snapped.

---

"Meryl, how did you get this little scar on your thumb?"

"Peeling potatoes. Long story."

"Does it hurt?"

"Of course not. Why would it?"

"It looks painful. Let me kiss it and make it better."

"For heaven's sake, what—Vash…"

"Better?"

"Yes, but can't you tell my thumb from my—oh. Ohmygoodness…"

---

Milly wrapped her bandanna around her hand.

The valve was stuck, and stuck tight. Grit had got into the threads and turned into cement. Good thing she'd come back when she did. This valve would've been locked up solid in another month. Nothing on this planet could've opened it.

Milly squatted and grabbed the jagged remnant of the bar. With all her might, she pushed with her legs and pulled with her arms.

Would this hurt the baby?

"I can handle it," Milly said through clenched teeth. "I can handle it, I can handle it, I can—"

A final pull, and the valve broke. The land absorbed the water, rose as if breathing it in. She washed the cut on her hand, put her lips to the stream, and drank.

---

"Where the hell did you learn _that_?" Meryl said.

"A practical application of my extensive knowledge of human physiology, namely—"

"That tickles."

"—female anatomy."

"Very funny. You're such a pervert."

"Takes one to know one," Vash said. "That wasn't the no-nonsense insurance girl I remember pulling my hair and moaning in ecstasy just now."

"I'm out of the insurance business."

"You don't say. What about the no-nonsense part?"

"We'd get to that if you didn't talk so much."

"Right you are."

"Yes I am. Oh—wait, Vash, before we get carried away…"

---

So this is how it's going to be, Milly thought.

Fresh blisters rose on her hands. Being away from the farm had made her soft. She'd come back none too soon. Milly fished her gloves out of her back pocket and slipped them on.

---

"I'm glad you don't mind," Meryl said.

"Not at all," Vash said. "I kind of expected it."

"It's just that I didn't have time to—make other arrangements."

"Careful, you'll tear it."

"Just be quiet and let me work. There, all done."

"Is it on right?"

"Of course, I read the instructions. Vash…"

"Yes?"

"Never mind. It's a little late to have doubts about you now, isn't it? Even if I did. Which I don't. Ah, hell…"

"It's all right. You can count on me to do the right thing, insurance girl."

"I know. You're a man of your word. Speaking of which," Meryl said, "call me that again."

"What? Insurance girl?"

"Say it again."

"Insurance girl…"

"Again…oh, yes…"

---

Milly Thompson, former agent of the Bernardelli Insurance Society, was satisfied. Water foamed out of the irrigation pipe, flowed into the carved rivulets around the field and divided into the tributaries parallel to the rows of thirsty seeds.

The suns were past their zenith. Had she missed lunch? She hadn't heard the bell. It didn't matter, she wasn't hungry. Heck, she could work all day without a single bite.

Far to the south, the main pumps of the irrigation system thrust their glistening shafts into the ground and drew them up in a cycle as endless as the wind that drove the machines themselves. Even from this distance Milly could hear the moan and sigh of oily metal on oily metal. A strong gust made the pumping faster.

And she thought Meryl had a dirty mind. No, her former boss had nothing on her when it came to impure thoughts. She'd proved it that last happy night in Tonim.

A priest. Of all the men she'd ever met, she picked the one man bound by a vow of chastity, or so Meryl had said when Meryl explained in detail just what a man of the cloth was. She was disappointed at first but it hadn't taken her long to discover that few of Mr. Wolfwood's sacred promises came between him and what he wanted to do. Or what he needed to do.

It was his wish as much as hers but she still felt bad about it. Even as she left her clothes on the floor, even as her hands touched his, her lips, her body, she wondered if this was the end of something pure in him, the death of a holy man's holiness.

She'd never wanted a holy man. A good man was good enough. He loved children, he would've been a wonderful father. I'm sorry, my darling, that you'll never know him—

---

_You're not pregnant, Milly._

_But Bea, I'm late. How can I not be?_

_A number of ways. Overwork, emotional stress, poor diet, lack of sleep, among others. All those things, by the look of you. _

_I'm fine, Beatrice. _

_I'm just trying to help, sweetie. Why won't you let me?_

"Milly."

_I can handle it Meryl_

"Milly…"

_He made me promise he made me promise and I did_

"Milly!"

_But so did he so did he goddamnit_

"Milly, wake up!"

Heat from the beaten thomas cart path baked through Milly's overalls and into her back.

"You passed out, sweetie," Bea said, dabbing Milly's forehead with a wet cloth. "My little Milly, why won't you listen to me?"

"Thought we lost you there for a moment, love," Dad said. "Oliver, Benjamin, you two carry your sister back to the house. The rest of you follow them. I think we've done enough for today."

Milly relaxed. It was good to be back home. Good to be busy with work and surrounded by family. Her brothers and sisters leaned down on their pitchforks and reapers, casting shadows, protecting her from the sickly suns, making malevolent shapes against a rotten vanilla pudding sky—

Halfway back to the house, her lungs on fire, her vocal cords flayed, Milly could run no further. She collapsed.

---

Meryl spread her fingers across Vash's chest, closed them around the strands of his hair. Soft, like petting a downy thomas chick. She drew a finger through the perspiration glistening on his shoulder, kissed the bare spot she made.

"Do I taste good?" he said.

"A little salty."

"You were expecting doughnuts?"

"You eat enough of them."

"I like other things, too."

"God, you're disgusting…"

"How could you ever put up with me."

"It would be an effort."

Vash moved his hand down to the small of her back.

"Maybe not that great an effort," Meryl said, sighing. At least _that_ would be easier from now on. She'd heard the first time would hurt, and it did. Maybe she'd put it on wrong, after all.

"Thank you," Meryl said.

"For what?"

Meryl wondered if all men, despite their other redeeming qualities, were so utterly dense. For saving my life, you broomhead. For being there when I needed you, for letting me be near you, for giving my life a purpose I never thought I'd have. For being a man among all other men. For waiting for me. For wanting me, for making love to me, for being in this bed with me. Do I really have to spell it out for you?

"No reason," she said.

"In that case," he said, "I thank you, too." His smile made a pleasant shiver travel up Meryl's spine. "For no reason."

"I guess we're even."

"I guess so."

Meryl leaned her head on his chest. _I want this night to last forever._ The heroines in every cheesy bodice-ripper she'd ever read had always said or thought the same thing, in different words, at this point in the story. Tragic romance was the literary fad of the times, and only in the rare books with happy endings did it happen that way. Most of the time the heroine's lover left her near the end, out of duty or honor or pride or any other reason a cardboard caricature of a man might imagine and die trying to reach that which was dearer than love, leaving his lady fair to pine for the living memory of him and mourn over the mound of newly turned earth on his grave.

It's a good thing, Meryl thought, that real life wasn't always that melodramatic.

"Vash," she said, "I'm going back."

"Back where?"

"Home." She hid her face in his shoulder. "I'm going back home." She had come to New Oregon to convince him they could have a life together, and she'd done her best. This night would end with the sunrise on them both, or in the moonlight alone. Then it was just a question of who would leave first.

Meryl caressed his chest, waiting. His breathing was shallow and his body had gone rigid, as if bracing for some unavoidable impact. She heard a crackling noise near his left ear.

Vash got up, pushed aside the curtain and peered through the window, listening and muttering. Moonlight poured through the gap. At the sound of gunfire in the streets, Meryl jumped.

No, Meryl said to the distorted voice coming from his earring. This can't be. He's come so far, been through so much, please, whoever you are, let him rest, let him come home, don't you dare change your mind on me, Vash the Stampede…

Vash tapped his earring. It went silent. He sat on the edge of the bed.

"We have to leave," he said, without turning.

"When?"

"Right now."

Meryl, accepting the inevitable, moved to get out of bed. His hand closed on hers.

"I'm coming with you," he said. "Would that be all right?"

Meryl didn't move, transfixed by her lover's words. Tonight had been a night to lose control, to shed inhibitions she'd lived with since that intimate silence not so far from here, before the Ship had fallen from the sky. Nothing held her back now, and her body seemed to move of its own accord as she threw her arms around his neck and held him close.

"As long as you behave yourself," she said.

---

Milly awoke to a room awash in moonlight, filled with a lingering terror and a pain that struck her belly like a fist. She stumbled to the bathroom, sat down.

When the pain subsided to a bearable level, she examined the water. Crimson filaments trailed behind tumbling scarlet drops.

"Big big sister…help…"

---

Author's Afterword

Well, friends and neighbors, this chapter marks the end of the first story arc. The next one will pick up the story some months later, when Meryl is firmly established in her new career and daydreaming about her courtship with her husband. Be on the lookout for some old friends, particularly a blond deputy marshal with a big silver gun, a voluptuous Plant engineer who likes to wear purple, and an Inepril waitress who wants more out of her life than waiting on outlaws and part-time bounty hunting.

To all who've reviewed thus far, my thanks and kind regards.

Next: Meryl joins her father's company, Vash gets an offer he can't refuse, and a certain deputy marshal gets a promotion that feels like anything but. See you next time!


	9. Getting Up in the World

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Eight – Getting Up in the World

---

The Compton Industrial Building was a relative newcomer to the skyline of December. Twenty years ago its architects had bucked the trend toward ever taller buildings that had driven the construction of the midtown business sector for decades, striving instead for practicality in the choice of lots. Yet from its foundation high on the south ridge of the scar, the edifice acquitted itself with honor in the company of its giant neighbors.

Meryl Stryfe, division manager of the Stryfe Consultants' accounting department, had no reason to complain. If long elevator rides and the status of altitude were more important to their clients and competitors than sensible rent payments, so be it.

One hundred and five feels straight down and six blocks north of her office the three-floored Bernardelli Building huddled behind another skyscraper like a shy child clinging to its mother's leg. The massive slate obelisks standing guard at the front steps were no larger than thimbles, the people passing between them no more than ants. A dark-suited figure that may or may not have been Mr. Bernardelli scurried like a sand roach down the steps and disappeared into a limousine.

Meryl sipped her tea. The view from a high-rise office at twelve-thirty on a Friday afternoon could be lovely indeed.

Meryl carried her cup and saucer back to her desk and sank into the comfortable swivel chair. Her staff wouldn't be back for another half hour. A long lunch was small reward for finishing the Thompson account estimates three days early and she'd have to think of a more suitable way to express her gratitude. Next Friday afternoon off with pay, perhaps.

From their framed photograph on her desk a bride and groom smiled at her. Meryl liked Friday afternoons for her own reasons.

---

Father had never approved of Meryl's weekend excursions. Her promotion to section chief had been accompanied by a lecture that made it clear to Father's newest manager that leaving work on time was the same as leaving early. It was a leader's obligation to set an appropriate example for those whom he or she led.

"Never let your people work harder than you do," Father said, "and they'll work wonders for you."

Meryl did not dispute this wisdom. She'd spent many a late night at her Bernardelli office catching up on reports only to see a light under the Chief's door when she left. Such dedication had much to do with her loyalty to Bernardelli in general and the Chief in particular. But at Bernardelli, except for an occasional coffee or dinner with Milly or Karen or one of the other girls, she'd been alone. The single life had its advantages, but there were nights, curled up on the couch with a good book or a dish of ice cream after a horrible day, that she'd envied her dating and married colleagues.

That the telegrams did not always come was an added frustration. The nature of Vash's work didn't allow him to abandon the agreement they'd made in Inepril, and if Vash was strong enough to surrender personal considerations for the sake of so important a job, so was she.

She and Vash had left New Oregon, heading home for December. Vash had insisted on separate cabins, saying that there was still danger in their being spotted together. She'd agreed, clutching the key to his first class room to her chest.

When the city council learned of their arrival in Inepril the chairman had summoned Vash to his office. When Vash returned he explained his plans to her. It all boiled down to one point: the city council of Inepril had made Vash an offer he couldn't refuse. The next morning, after a night full of comforts and reassurances, she said goodbye to him on the steamer dock.

"Better than you being a jobless drifter, I suppose," she said through the heavy ache in her chest.

"It'll get easier," Vash said. "I'll contact you as soon as I can, I promise."

"Don't make me hunt you down. I can do that, you know."

"I'll be right here waiting for you," he said, and then she was in his arms. "Come see me when I send word, insurance girl."

"Only if you say please, you broomhead jerk."

And that was that, until on a normal Friday afternoon in the accounting department a young man wearing the smart blue uniform of a telegraph courier stood beside her desk. He handed over a manila envelope that all but disintegrated under her desire to read the message inside. She gave the boy a generous tip—no wonder they're always smiling—and waited until he was gone to open the folded paper.

_Please._

At one minute after five o'clock Meryl locked her desk. In the locker room she changed clothes and grabbed the small overnight bag full of sundries she'd kept for this occasion.

Father was less understanding, if more theatrical. He must've practiced that disapproving glance in the mirror for years, not to mention that pose he struck when he looked at his watch. That look and posture were enough to silence even the most rancorous business meetings or restore the most ardent layabout or gossip to full productivity.

Meryl waited for the regular employees to file out.

"Goodbye, Father," she said when they were gone, and hugged him. "See you Sunday."

"You be here bright and early Monday morning, Miss Stryfe," he said, hugging her back. "Not one second later than a half hour early, you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," she called over her shoulder, and waved. A short drive to the edge of the city later, convertible stored in the terminal parking garage, first class ticket in hand, Meryl walked up the boarding ramp of the _Beluga_.

A delicious meal and a good night's sleep after that, the city of Inepril lay beyond her porthole. An orderly served her tea and toast in her cabin. After breakfast Meryl freshened up in the first class bathing facilities, vowing never to travel in lesser accommodations again. Father didn't pay her any more than the other section managers—nepotism wasn't even a concept in Father's mind—but her parents weren't charging their only daughter room and board just yet. When Meryl had asked them upon her return from New Oregon if she could live with them a while longer until the homestead was ready, they'd been too delighted to haggle.

Meryl arrived at the restaurant just as Grams was opening for business. Green, white and blue streamers lined the eatery's windows. Flower arrangements of the same colors stood on the tables. Today was Foundation Day, the biggest holiday on the Federal calendar.

Grams brought Meryl a cup of tea and a slice of white cake topped with swirled blue and green frosting and sat down to join Meryl in her own repast. The sand cleanup after the Plant's repair had been finished two days ago and to celebrate the whole town was preparing for the biggest Foundation Day festival in recorded history. The chairman and his council had promised the city the largest and loudest fireworks display on the planet, and Gram's son, the lead pyrotechnician on the project, had told her it was no mere campaign boast.

Meryl said she was looking forward to it. Grams motioned her to lean close.

"He comes in right at noon, like clockwork, even," Grams said. "Never seen a man put away so much goldang food. Like to put me out of business some days."

Meryl chatted with the wise old woman until Monica Allen, dressed for work at her own diner, passed the front window, stopped, and waved to her. Meryl beckoned Monica into the restaurant and in the middle of their discussion of Meryl's new career and Inepril's economic boom Monica surprised Meryl with a request to set her up with a job or at least an interview. The work at the diner was easy, the tips were good and getting better, but…

"But I want something more out of my life," Monica said. "I love Inepril and the folks who live here, but I want to see more of the world, if you take my meaning, Miss Stryfe."

"I do, Miss Allen," Meryl said, "more than you can guess." Meryl promised to look at Monica's record and résumé when she returned to December.

As the first stroke of noon boomed from the bells of the church at the center of town, Vash appeared at the door. Meryl took no notice of him, watching him in glances. Old Grams was right about his appetite. After the last salmon sandwich and a long final pull on his mug of beer, Vash slapped down a tip that even from this distance Meryl could tell would cover the price of the sandwiches and then some.

Without a sideways glance Vash left Gram's place. After a discreet time, Meryl followed.

His apartment was a studio flat on the top floor of a small complex a few blocks from the Plant, visible from the single broad window that filled the outside wall of his home. Meryl closed the door behind her.

"Hi," he said, and extended his hand.

"Hi," she said, and took it. What furniture Vash kept in his home was sparse and functional. Not even a dining table or a hot plate, only a simple desk with a drafting lamp, a single chair and a telephone. Vash took the earpiece off the hook and led her to his bed.

The springs creaked when Meryl sat down. She leaned back on her arms and kicked off her pumps.

"How's the job?" she said.

Vash unlaced and took off his boots. "Terrific," he said. The chairman's plan to build a cadre of Plant engineers independent from the Marius Breskin Kantackle Industrial Union was proceeding on schedule. The first class of apprentices was top-notch and was taking to the training and class work like migrating thomases to water. When they were fully trained the new engineers would train the following class and so on, with Vash serving as an advisor and consultant when needed.

"But that won't happen very often," Vash said as he leaned back on the bed. "I'll charge too much money for that."

Meryl loosened her tie. "Sounds like you have it all figured out," she said.

"Pretty much, but there is one thing I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"What happened to Derringer Meryl?" Vash said, unbuckling his belt. "You're not wearing your cape."

"My fancy shooting days are over," Meryl said, unbuttoning her blouse.

"It isn't safe for a lady to travel unarmed."

"I have a weapon."

Vash removed his shirt. "Really? Where?"

"You'll find it," Meryl said as she laced her fingers behind her head and laid back. "All you have to do is look." She held her body and breath still as Vash's hand brushed her leg and vanished under her skirt. It reappeared, derringer and holster dangling from his fingers by its thin leather strap.

"Thigh holster," he said. "Very nice."

"Didn't even feel that."

"You know how good I am with my hands."

"Pervert," Meryl said as he demonstrated his skill with her skirt zipper and brassiere clasp in rapid succession. "What else are you good with? Dare I ask?"

"You'll find it," Vash said, finishing at last what she began with her pumps. "All you have to do is look."

---

"You found it."

"It wasn't hard."

"That's not what you said the first time. Or the second."

"No, I mean it wasn't difficult—oh, be quiet." Meryl kicked an empty cardboard food container off the blanket over her feet. It rolled onto the floor to join its fellows. Their post-lunch lovemaking had left them exhausted, and after a refreshing afternoon nap Vash had ordered takeout for dinner. The debris of their meal, scattered by two exuberant helpings of dessert, lay about the bed.

A flash of green light filled the dim room. A distant explosion followed.

"Is everything a joke to you?" she said.

"Are you always so literal?" Vash said.

"Are you always so annoying?" Another flash, red this time. A loud pop.

"Do you always answer questions with a question?"

"I'd stop if I ever got a straight answer from you." Gold, followed by a cascade of white ripples that hissed like sand against a window.

"Maybe I need a straight answer from you."

"Maybe you do," Meryl said. A brilliant volley of multicolored incandescence splashed over her lover's face. His expression matched the pensive violet mood of dusk. "We need to talk."

"It's only for a little while."

"What about after?"

"You don't want to leave your job, I take it?"

Meryl rose on her arms. Her body blocked the next salvo of firework light and kept Vash's face in shadow.

"Don't you dare ask me that," she said. "My father needs me, my mother needs me—"

"After all this time you still think the worst of me," Vash said, sitting up. He was smiling. "I have a good job that pays well, more than enough to provide for us both. And I'm safe here." Vash touched her face. "I just want to be worthy of you."

"Give me a break."

"I want to make you happy."

"Would you just stop, already?"

"I want to keep you safe."

"If you're trying to make me cry, broomhead, it isn't working."

"I think we should get married."

"Married? Boy, if you can repeat what you just said in front of my parents you won't have to ask for permission. Hell, Mother'll beg you to marry me."

"Good to know at least one of your parents will be on my side." Vash opened a desk drawer and withdrew a square velvet box. He extended it to her on his palm. "Not everything's a joke to me, Meryl."

"Vash, what—"

"Just open it."

Meryl obeyed, and what the joyous firework brilliance that bathed the city did for the diamond ring inside, the ring did for her heart, light and sound together.

---

"Mrs. Stryfe?"

"Hmm?" Beyond the glass walls of her office members of her staff were returning to their desks. "Yes, Miss Allen?"

"Mr. Stryfe would like to see you in his office," Monica said. "At your convenience, ma'am."

"Thank you." _At your convenience._ Translated from Fatherspeak the phrase meant _Right the hell now._ From its hook on the back of the door Meryl grabbed her gray blazer, her only badge of authority apart from the standard office uniform, and slipped it on.

"How do you like working here so far, Monica?" she said.

"I like it just fine, ma'am," Monica said. "Thank you for being patient with me."

"Not at all, you're doing just fine." Meryl followed Monica out of the office. "Oh, Monica?"

"Yes, Mrs. Stryfe?"

"It's perfectly all right if you slip up and call me Meryl once in a while, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Right, Meryl thought as she turned toward Father's office. Formality had its place in one's personal professionalism but it could get oppressive.

Father's office door was open. Meryl knocked on the frame.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Meryl," he said, and waved her in. Her father's head poked up over the stacks of paperwork that ringed his desk. "Please, my dear, sit down. Give me a second to finish this and I'll be right with you."

"Yes, sir." Meryl regarded the seemingly random stacks of folders and paper on every spare horizontal square ich of Father's office with amusement and curiosity. How had the man built this business being so disorganized? Meryl promised herself that if and when she took over someday she'd never allow her office to reach this level of chaos.

A pair of hands slipped between the two stacks closest to Meryl and spread the document towers apart.

"I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here," Father said.

"Not to straighten up your office, I hope."

"You know, I tried that on Mrs. Hammersham the first day she worked for me, and the first document she ever typed for me was her resignation. Did I ever tell you that?"

"Yes, Father." Many times. Too many times.

"Anyway, I won't waste your time. Mr. Beedle tells me that you're working wonders in your division."

"Mr. Beedle is kind, sir." About time that old fool noticed. Bex Beedle, head of the accounting department, could crunch numbers faster than any human being she'd ever known but had no discernible understanding of the value of people.

"He's also right. Your division has completed every assignment given to it for the last six months earlier than scheduled."

"Thank you, sir," Meryl said, and explained her plan to thank her division.

"Approved," Father said. "Okay, now that that's out of the way, here's the good news." Father came around the desk and sat in the chair beside her.

"You've worked hard for me, honey," he said and patted her hand. "I'd like to offer you the chance to work harder."

"A chance to work harder? Gosh, where do I sign up."

"You've heard that Mr. Torix is retiring next year, correct? Before he leaves I'm going to need a replacement. I want you to take over for him when the time comes."

Meryl resisted the temptation to run for the Machete Hills northwest of the city. What the hell was Father thinking?

"So what's the good news?" she said.

"That was the good news."

"Which part?"

"I think you can do it, Meryl."

"Sir, there's bound to be someone in Engineering who can take his place."

"I'm sure there is but I want you."

"Father…sir, I don't think—"

"Your math and science grades in school were almost perfect. You graduated a year early."

Meryl looked at her lap, avoiding his eyes. "You know why I did that."

"And I don't care. You've got the skills, you've got the brains. All you need is experience." Father stood. "As of next week I want you to start sitting in on our client and policy meetings. I want you to get to know all the department heads and start learning how the company really gets things done. To further facilitate your education you will be transferred to Engineering and start as an assistant section leader."

"What!"

"It's not a demotion, Meryl. Your extra duties as well as your transfer merit a significant pay raise. You're not climbing a corporate ladder here. I get to choose who will take over this company someday. I want it to be you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father. Of course I do." Meryl watched her free time evaporate like a drop of ether on a hot plate.

"Good." Father stood. "I'll make the transfer effective next Friday. You can tell your people then. And give me the short list of possible replacements for you." Father settled behind his desk, hidden amongst the document towers. "Speaking of possible replacements, when's that husband of yours due in?"

"Very funny," Meryl said. "Ericks is coming back on the afternoon steamer."

"We're still on for dinner tonight, right?"

"Father, don't you ever write this stuff down?"

"I do, but then I lose track of it for some reason—"

Meryl raised her hand. "And with that I move this meeting be officially adjourned."

"Seconded. Now get out of my office and get your lazy butt back to work."

"Yes, sir," Meryl said, and retraced her route back to her office. As she passed the desk of her department's most junior apprentice she made a request.

"Miss Allen, the next time you go for coffee could you bring me some tea, please?"

"Right away, ma'am."

"No, I mean—thank you," Meryl said, resigned as Monica jumped from her desk. Giving their apprentices the most mundane errands and menial jobs had a purpose, namely to get them familiarized with the office layout and company hierarchy, with the ancillary purpose of teaching the simplest lessons on time and task management. Meryl's unintended lesson had to be unlearned in a hurry.

Meryl removed and hung up her blazer. Like most apprentices Monica was willing to learn and eager. Such eagerness offered temptations to any manager, no matter how skilled or professional, to exploit new people and make them little more than slaves. Such was often the case at Bernardelli.

Monica appeared at the door, cup and saucer borne on a tray.

"Your tea, Mrs. Stryfe," she said, setting the tea on Meryl's desk near her right hand. Monica flipped the tray in her hand and tucked it under her arm, an expert in a familiar situation.

That explains it, Meryl thought.

"Thank you for the tea," she said. "Miss Allen, I'd like a word with you. Would you please shut the door? Thank you. Now please, put down the tray and take a seat."

Monica did, sitting ramrod straight in a chair designed to impart comfort, not fear. She bit her lip and clicked her thumbnails together.

"Miss Allen, I owe you an apology. I made a request that a new person such as you could easily misinterpret as an order. For that, I am very sorry. I won't let it happen again."

"No need to apologize, Mrs. Stryfe," Monica said. "I didn't mind at all. In fact, I—"

"And you can stop right there. I'm going to tell you something you'll learn anyway, but this will be faster and clear up any misunderstandings that might stand between us." Meryl sat on the edge of her desk and crossed her arms.

"The owner of this firm has it in his head that I'm to take over for him someday. Knowledge of this has lead certain employees—both in my division and others—to believe that overt politeness toward me and currying my favor will advance their positions in this company as well, if and when that happens. If you, Miss Allen, are one of these or are contemplating becoming one, I want to assure you right now that sucking up to me, now or ever, will get you nothing but a pink slip and an escort to the front door. Do I make myself clear, Apprentice Allen?"

"Yes, ma'am," Monica said, looking at her hands.

"My father built this company by hiring the smartest and most skilled professionals he could find. Your apprenticeship and continued employment at Stryfe Consultants should inspire in you nothing but pride, both in your work and in your bearing. Do you know what that means?"

Meryl slid into the chair next to Monica's.

"Monica, please look at me. I want you to hear this, from one ex-waitress to another." Monica's blue eyes were glazed with forming tears.

"It means," Meryl said, "that you'll be getting a lot of scut work at first. That would be true at any other company or guild or union, that's how you learn. That's how I learned, and how I'm still learning. But I am no one's slave and neither are you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Meryl," Monica said. "At least I think I do. No one's ever talked to me that way before. In a good way, I mean."

"Get used to it." Meryl took the box of tissues from her desk. "You may take whatever time you need to compose yourself." She picked up the tray. "In the meantime, Monica, may I offer you some coffee?"

A teary smile spread across Monica's face.

"Yes, please. I'd like that. With cream and two sugars."

"Coming right up." And if that wasn't good enough for her then nothing was. Meryl prepared the coffee, returned to the office, and extended the cup to her. Monica thanked her, nodding approval after her first drink.

"Nice view," Monica said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said it's a nice view. From your office, I mean, ma'am."

Meryl nodded agreement. Her new office in Engineering would have no windows but it would be one floor higher. Her paycheck would be a few double dollars larger. And one day the spectacular view from Father's glass-walled corner office would be hers…along with the leaning towers of paperwork.

Meryl had the feeling she'd get a chance to deal with the whole mess whether she wanted to or not.

---

But not tonight.

Meryl leaned back on the bench her grandfather had made, flipped her blanket over her bare feet. When she was a little girl she and Grandpa would come up here on moonless nights, carrying bags full of Grandma's popcorn and canteens full of apple juice, to talk and watch the stars. All through the endless night Grandpa would tell stories his father and grandfather had told him, stories of how their ancestors had seen patterns in the night sky and given them names.

"Are the pictures still there, Grandpa?" she asked him one night around a mouthful of popcorn.

"We're too far away from Earth," he said, and went on to explain that the stars weren't fixed in their places, that they moved through space just like their world did.

So…not even the stars stayed where they were. Meryl slowed her chewing to ruminate on this incredible idea.

"Can't we make our own pictures?" she said, and for the rest of the night Meryl drew designs on the stars until her arms and eyelids grew heavy and she felt herself borne by gentle, labor-hardened arms to her bed downstairs.

And if this night ended in a similar way, Meryl thought, she would have no complaints.

Vash—the man her parents and the world knew as Ericks—appeared at the top of the fold-down stairs and sat beside her. From inside his own blanket he produced a bottle of champagne and two glasses. She held the shallow crystal basins as he poured the golden, foaming liquid. Vash put down the bottle and raised his glass.

"Congratulations," he said.

"Thank you," she said, and drank. The view from the roof was not much better than the view from the ground but certain special occasions demanded the dignity only the outdoors could provide. The fact that she and her husband were stark naked beneath the blankets draped around their shoulders did not, for some reason, detract from it.

"I don't think your father likes me," Vash said.

"He likes you just fine."

"He made me sweep the garage after dinner."

"He made me sweep it when I was six."

"That must've been rough."

"Not at all," Meryl said. "It taught me responsibility, something my husband is finally learning."

"At least your mom likes me."

"Mother loves you. She has a soft spot for orphans." Meryl snuggled closer. "I suppose I do, too."

"What about children?" Vash said.

"What children?"

"Children in general. Non-orphans. You know…like ours."

Meryl grabbed her husband's blanket near his neck. "All right, what did Mother say to you?" Vash raised his hands, exposing his body.

"Nothing, nothing," he said. "Seriously, I'm only curious."

"I don't know. Maybe someday. Right now my work, my parents and my marriage to a former legendary outlaw are about as much as I can handle."

"Yeah…"

"What's the matter?"

"Tonight? Not a single thing." Vash raised his glass. "To my wife Meryl, the best engineering manager in the world. May she conquer the world someday."

"I'll drink to that," Meryl said, and did. She set the glasses aside. All that was left was the moons and the stars and the silent wastes pale as polar frost.

"This reminds me of our honeymoon," Vash said.

"Except it was never dark," Meryl said.

"Remember that morning we decided to go for a walk?"

"How could I forget? We both nearly froze to death."

"The crunching sound of our footsteps, my old bedroll…"

"Yes, I remember. How I ever let you talk me into—oh, no. Oh, no you _don't_, Mister Vash…"

"It's not nearly that cold," Vash said, "and these blankets are nice and warm."

"I don't care," Meryl said. "What if some pervert in the city has a telescope?"

"Yeah, he could be watching us right now."

"God, you're twisted. At least let's go inside, I have to get up early."

"Tell your mother I'd rather sleep in."

"It wouldn't kill you to go with us just once," Meryl said. "We were married in that church, in case you forgot."

"So let God watch over your soul," Vash said. "I'll look after your body."

"I think you've seen and felt quite enough—Vash! You give me that blanket right now!"

"Ha! Come and get it, insurance girl!"

"You're damn right, I will!" Meryl said, and when the coming and the getting it happened the other way around, she had no complaints.

---

Author's Afterword

A little more fun before the angst. I had originally planned on having Maryanne's first scene at the beginning of this chapter, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't make it fit. And if the scene doesn't fit, you must ed-it.

Ahem. Sorry. Anyway, we'll be seeing Maryanne and Elizabeth next chapter. See you then!


	10. From Somewhere Out Of Nowhere

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Nine – From Somewhere Out Of Nowhere

---

On Inepril 14th, 132 F.A., at approximately four o'clock in the morning, a square of metal fell from the sky above September City.

The first eyewitness account came from the mother superior of the Sisters of Perpetual Grace, who awoke to a motion in the earth that knocked her from her bed. In the convent's backyard she found a square hole in the ground, twenty yarz on a side, where the convent's chicken coop used to be. Thirty of the birds were killed. No report on the number of eggs lost was filed.

The astonished constables at the scene relayed the convent's call to city hall, whereupon the city government contacted September's contingent of Plant engineers and sent them to investigate.

The engineers determined that the artifact was made of hullmetal, yet showed no signs of the damage or re-entry scoring normally found on deorbited remnants of the Fall. The edges were sharp and perfect, the surface glassy and smooth, as if the plate had emerged that morning from the Old Earth forge that had created its countless millions of ruined replicas. "I was afraid to touch it, it was so beautiful," one engineer reported.

Subsequent examination of Plant A-3's activity logs showed a correlation between the time of the event and a power diversion to a little known and less understood subroutine in the Plant's diagnostic systems. The consensus among those present was that the problem was beyond their collective knowledge and experience and there was no known way, short of shutting down the Plant, of preventing such a thing from happening again. This finding was presented to an emergency meeting of the September City Council. The vote to shut down the Plant and contact the Marius Breskin Cantackle Industrial Union was one vote short of unanimous.

Elizabeth closed the binder containing the city's report and tossed it aside, pleased to learn September had such site engineers, nominal colleagues, who knew what they didn't know. She stretched in the command chair, satisfied with the progress of Plant A-3's maintenance and diagnostic cycle. The senior members of her team shouted orders to their new crop of apprentices and the kids obeyed, putting away tools and breaking down test equipment.

She needn't have bothered with this. Elmore Ettiore, her most experienced engineer and her second in command, had brass enough to say as much. "You're just taking up space and making the children nervous," he'd said. He was probably right. Any one of her apprentices had enough knowledge to sit in this chair and watch indicator lights turn green.

Repairing a Plant was like parenting at times. There were Plants that responded to straightforward single-key commands like a proper machine, others that seemed to argue and pose alternatives, requiring a labyrinthine navigation of the command paths and control algorithms. This one had pouted like a spoiled toddler. If Elizabeth hadn't known better, if she weren't absolutely sure this was nothing more than a mechanism, albeit one so advanced and mysterious it might as well be magical, she could've sworn that her ministrations amounted to nothing more than giving the little monster a spanking and sending it to bed without dinner.

That'll teach you to throw hull plates around, she thought, watching the idiot lamps on the maintenance panel blink. Was it sulking? She didn't care, as long as it started behaving itself. She would know in another twenty minutes.

"Long day, boss," Elmore said, flopping into the seat beside hers. He smelled of solder and burnt insulation, the perfume and cologne of their profession. "Why don't you take a break, let me or one of the kids do this?"

"I am," Elizabeth said. "This is me, taking a break."

"You work too hard. It's starting to show, if I may say so."

"That may be, but I'm afraid we don't have much choice." This year's class of apprentices was the smallest in the Union's hundred-year history.

Elmore snorted and crossed his soot-streaked arms. "Someone needs to have a talk with those Inepril people," he said.

"They never did strike me as terribly bright."

"That's what scares me."

Elizabeth waited out the Plant's foul mood until all the status indicators stopped blinking and turned green. The apprentices—boys fresh out of December Academy, except for one young woman from the Max Simon School for whom Elizabeth had high hopes—filed past, grimacing and perspiring under their loads of luggage and equipment. Elizabeth thanked them in silence. No bunch of whiners, these kids. Not at all like this petulant Plant.

A red switch labeled ONEIROSTAT protruded from the control panel. Elizabeth lifted the safety cover, flipped the steel toggle from STANDBY to ENABLE, and snapped the cover closed. The toddler was on its own.

"And that's that," Elizabeth said.

"Good work, boss."

"Couldn't have done it without you, El. Unfortunately, I'll have to from now on."

Elmore laughed. "Fired again? Only the second time this year."

"You should be so lucky. No, I just found out this morning, before we left. The Union's giving you a team. Congratulations. And El?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"It's just Elizabeth now, all right?"

"Yes ma'am, just Elizabeth ma'am."

Elmore retired to a restroom to clean himself up, and when he emerged Elizabeth followed him to the exit hatch, squinted into the late afternoon suns. Elmore stood close to her and offered his arm.

"Join me for dinner on the steamer, Elizabeth?" he said.

"Why, Mr. Ettiore," she said, "I'd be honored." Elizabeth curled her hand around his bicep, let it rest on his thick forearm. She opened her parasol and reflected, as she did after every successful job, on how good it was to be the top Plant engineer in the world, to stroll down a sidewalk of a great and vibrant city in the company of—a good-looking man, she was surprised to discover. On the job he was all greasy hands and hard work and shouted orders, but out here he carried himself with such quiet, noble dignity that her ever present crowd of admirers parted like the wind on a sand steamer's bow before him.

Elizabeth studied his calm face from beneath her hat brim. Yes, very good looking indeed. Competent as hell, too, but that didn't seem important now…

Through the handle of her parasol Elizabeth felt something strike it, as if fingers were drumming the taut fabric. Elmore stopped, held his hand palm up and looked at the sky. She was about to upbraid him for his juvenile prank when she noticed the townspeople doing the same, searching the sky, supplicants begging for who knew what. Moisture darkened the street and sidewalks. A pleasant scent, like laundry drying on a clothesline, filled the air.

Elizabeth lowered and closed her umbrella. Two drops of water dribbled from the tip.

"What was that?" Elmore said, wiping his wet palm on his coveralls.

"I don't know," Elizabeth said. She and her handsome escort resumed their walk to the steamer dock. The minute they were home she'd be speaking to the Union Board. A chunk of metal appearing in midair was one thing, but water was another. If the Plant had caused this it was a new phenomenon that merited close study.

Elizabeth ground her teeth. Her work, and the Union's, just became much harder. Those fools in Inepril, and that renegade engineer they'd hired, would have much to answer for.

---

"I must say again, marshal, this is quite a surprise."

Maryanne lowered her battered luggage to the dusty floor.

"I apologize for that, Mister Mayor," she said. This was as much a surprise for her as it was for him. Why couldn't the Service let her career die in peace?

"I hope you'll forgive us for the state of your accommodations," the mayor said. He tucked his thumbs into his vest pockets. "We sent our request to December six months ago and received no advance notice of your arrival."

Maryanne wandered the spacious room, appraising her new home. Her orders were tucked into a side pocket on her satchel. As she drew clean lines in the dust on the kitchen table she was tempted to pull the documents out and check to see if the Service had made some horrible mistake, but—no. If the Chief Marshal had wanted her badge and gun he would've asked for it.

"I'm sure you'll agree that's hardly enough time to give our new marshal a proper reception," the mayor said.

Maryanne caught a hint of movement reflected in the battered chrome of the faucet, but it was only her host smoothing back his oiled and perfumed hair. She understood and expected the inevitable diplomatic machinery that would be part of the town's official welcome, but this pampered dandy with his waxed moustache and expensive suit was as pretty and appropriate as a fine portrait in an outhouse.

Another eighteen years to retirement, she thought, fighting to relax, waiting for the inevitable. Did the man think her that stupid?

The mayor smiled a courtly smile. "Perhaps if you're not to busy," he said, approaching, "you might care to join me for dinner."

"No thank you, sir," she said, willing her host to be reasonable. "It's been a long day and I'd like to get settled."

"Of course, dear lady, of course. But I believe it's important for our town's latest resident to establish…cordial relations with the local government as soon as possible." The mayor slicked back his gleaming hair. "And we have a fine three-star restaurant and hotel just two blocks away."

Men, Maryanne thought. They were all the same. Except one. Well, maybe two…

"Two and a half," Maryanne said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Two and a half stars, Mister Mayor. I read the brochure on the bus from May City. And I doubt your wife would approve." Maryanne held her gaze on the deep notch on the mayor's swollen and glistening ring finger. Must've cost him half a jar of hair gel getting the thing off, and fast work, too.

The mayor shoved his left hand into his pocket. His right rose in a gesture of conciliation.

"My dear young woman, we're both adults here, are we—"

"Marshal."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'll thank you to address me as marshal." And just in case the man couldn't take a hint she let her hand float near the butt of her Marlon special. At least she was allowed to carry her own sidearm again. "We're both professionals here. Are we not, Mister Mayor?"

The mayor's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Maryanne let him sweat it out, watching him calculate the consequences of his actions, given that he was alone with a woman who was not his wife and could make up any story she liked—after he was dead and cooling on the floor. No jury in the territory would convict her, his eyes seemed to say. She watched in satisfaction as the mayor swept the silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his brow.

"Yes, marshal," he said. "Of course, of course. Well, now that you're settled in, I'll just leave you alone, then." He moved to leave.

"One more thing, sir, if you please."

The mayor stopped at her doorway, flinched as if there were a knife at his back.

"Where can I find the town sheriff?" Maryanne said. "I'd like to meet him."

The town's leading citizen seemed to shrink. "I'm sorry to say that our beloved sheriff died in the line of duty."

Maryanne accepted the news with equanimity. Such was the life. Interesting. He'd been alive when the town sent its request—

"I'd still like to meet him," she said.

The sheriff's granite stone was just where the mayor had told her it would be. She removed her hat and offered her fallen comrade a moment of silence. She knelt and brushed the mounded earth with her fingers.

I'll do my best, she told him, then stood. As she put on her hat she read the identical stone next to the sheriff's.

Beloved Wife and Daughter, it said. Two names, two dates. The final dates were the same.

Maryanne let the ache pass, waited for the anger as she followed the footpath back to the churchyard. She slammed the iron gate closed behind her and turned up the street toward home. Men tipped their hats, women nodded in greeting as she passed. She didn't care, as long as they didn't try to talk to her.

Back at her new home Maryanne searched the shelves and cabinets. Over the sink she found a bottle of December City sipping whiskey, half-empty by the look and sound of it. How nice. The town was sparing no expense to make her feel at home.

Maryanne selected a coffee cup from the folded dishtowel by the sink and poured two fingers worth. On the front porch she considered getting comfortable in the rocking chair, but that was the wrong message to send to the good townsfolk. Old before her time, they'd say. She lifted her watch from its pocket. Ten after five. Back in December, this would be rush hour. She'd be heading home about now, walking to her apartment, ready to shed that awful uniform she'd had to wear on desk duty, anxious to call Jerrik the moment she laid hands on the phone. And if he was waiting for her, she'd let him help her undress—

"Hey, no cutting!"

Maryanne set her cup of whiskey aside. Between the jail and the Last Chance Saloon a crowd was forming, drawn to incipient violence like ants to a dropped piece of candy.

"Wait your turn, Kostelecki…"

"Wait yours, fatass. I was here first."

From the gathered mass of people one man's head protruded above the rest. He lifted a wooden bucket and poured water into his gullet, over his head and face. He made a shoving motion. The crowd backed away.

Every town had three kinds of people, Maryanne thought, getting to her feet. The drunk, the idiot, and the bully. Watching this behemoth Kostelecki wade through the crowd made her think this man was all three at once.

Her term in her new office didn't officially begin until noon tomorrow. The mayor was going to get a bill for her time. She approached the throng.

"Please, friend, just take your water and go—"

"Straight to hell."

"You tell him, Fatty!"

"Piss off, Burnnock."

"Please, mister, my boy is thirsty…"

At the edge of the mob a man turned back and looked. Maryanne let her hand fall to her pistol. Word of her arrival spread by shoulder taps and harsh whispers, and the crowd dispersed and reformed on the sidewalks.

At the sight of the town well, Maryanne could come no closer.

Unaware of her presence the town drunk-idiot-bully Kostelecki roared stupidity and impotence at a dust-covered man facedown in the street and the boy beside him. The boy's body thrummed anger. His cherub's face was fury red.

Maryanne stood where she was, and after the fallen man's brave and foolish son had crossed the distance between himself and his father's assailant and just before Kostelecki had taken the boy's head in his hand and thrust it aside like a rotten apple Maryanne drew her Marlon special, aimed it at the sky and pulled the trigger. The report left Maryanne the only one standing.

"Evening, marshal," said a spectator from under his raised hands when the echo died.

"Good evening, sir," Maryanne said. She holstered her weapon. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. As you may have heard, I am the new territorial marshal of Cornelia, and I look forward to getting to know all of you. Although I could've established my office anywhere in the territory, your good mayor was persuasive enough to convince me to set up shop here. Why? Because both the mayor and my immediate superiors assured me this was a nice, quiet, peaceful place to live." Kostelecki, still prone, held his hat over his face with both hands. "This _is_ a nice, quiet, peaceful place to live, isn't it?"

"Y-yes, marshal," the bully said.

"Isn't it?" she said to the crowd, who agreed with nods and whispered courtesies. "Good. That will make my job much easier, and you will not find a more grateful peace officer anywhere in the world if it stays that way. Understand? Thank you. Now, please forgive me for disrupting your evening." Maryanne moved to check on the boy, but the well was between her and the action. The boy's father made it to his feet, pounded dust from his son's clothing and ruffled clouds of it from his hair. The boy let his father take his hand and with the other, he waved his thanks to her.

Maryanne waved back and turned to go home. With a shaking hand she searched her pockets for a handkerchief. She sat on the porch steps and took a long drink from the coffee cup.

The street in front of her house was packed earth, and the evening suns played their shadows across the bumpy, uneven road. Like finding shapes in the clouds, Maryanne could almost imagine a set of footprints running from the porch to the alley between the bank and the old hotel.

She looked closer. Not one set. Two.

Maryanne knelt in the street. Yes, two sets of prints moving away from the porch. One set, the larger, came back—

There it was again, only this time the owner likely male, was walking north. Tall, judging by the length of the stride. The weight on the toe and ball suggested he was pulling something heavy. Yes, two parallel tracks, like a cart or travois.

Maryanne followed the trail around the corner and didn't stop until it faded, on the edge of town. When she turned back, the townspeople, still as statues, were watching her. Under the force of her gaze they scattered, intent on their small town business.

The first marshal of Cornelia Territory wiped dirt from her hands. Maybe this job wouldn't be as boring as she'd thought.

---

Arithmetic makes me hungry, Milly thought.

Columns of figures ran the length of her legal pad, refusing to be reconciled. Darn numbers. Why couldn't she make them behave? She should've had an answer the second the problem was written down.

Milly swept the eraser shavings from the bottom of the page. She had to concentrate. This page held all the payroll figures for the last week and everything had to work out before any of the laborers could be paid. In less than an hour an army of sweaty, tired, thirsty wranglers and reapers and plowmen would be thundering through her back door, minds filled with the taste and feel of that first cold beer after work. If she disappointed them the family name would be disgraced forever, and Thompson Farms, long a hallmark of agricultural excellence, would become the butt of every bad joke told in the territory for the next hundred years.

Her pencil slashed a ragged hole through the paper. Darn. Scaring herself didn't help, either. Then again, arithmetic wasn't the same as hiccups, now was it?

Milly decided this page of figures was damaged beyond repair. She wadded the lead-torn, eraser-burnt paper into a ball and tossed it into her wastebasket.

At the kitchen sink Milly filled a glass with water and drank deeply. The day was hot but the afternoon was hotter, and not even the network of ceiling fans her grandfather had installed thirty years ago offered much relief. Chickens pecked at the silent yard outside the window. The wind carried the noise and smell of the pigsty north, where the only evidence of activity out in the fields was a dwindling stand of late planted wheat. Mr. Fletcher was nowhere to be seen.

Milly refilled her glass and carried it back to the table. So quiet with everyone gone, even Mom and Dad who'd taken their first vacation in almost five years. Dad had left her with homework, accounting exercises that she would need to master.

"And who knows, Milly love," he'd said as he'd thrown his last piece of luggage into the runabout, "this farm might be yours someday." She'd smiled and waved as her parents disappeared in a cloud of dust down the old north road.

Right, Dad, she thought. Nine elder brothers and sisters had a stronger claim on the land than she ever would.

Milly heard a knock on the back door. She returned to her seat. "Come in," she said.

Mr. Fletcher, the first farmhand Dad had ever hired, clomped down the back hall. He swept off his sweat-stained hat, wiped his brow on his shirtsleeve.

"Evening, Miss Thompson," he said, and proceeded to summarize his day's activities. Milly listened, impressed with so hard a worker. Why, he packed almost as much work into a day as she did. Or used to do. Dad and Beatrice said she wasn't allowed to work in the fields anymore. They made her promise.

"That last bit of second summer wheat will be cut and bundled by noon tomorrow, ma'am," he said. "Or I can stay late and finish it tonight, if you like."

"No thank you, Mr. Fletcher, that won't be necessary," Milly said, and opened the battered black strongbox beside her. She fished through the compartments until she found a short brown envelope and extended it to him. "Thank you for all your hard work today."

"My pleasure, ma'am," Mr. Fletcher said, tucking his wages into a pocket on his coveralls. He put on his hat, touched the brim to her. "See you tomorrow."

Milly waited for the footsteps to fade and the back door to close, then counted out Mr. Fletcher's wages. She slipped the bills into another envelope and laid it on the loaded revolver in the bottom of the strongbox. She locked the box and hid it under her big big sister's bed.

When the suns went down and her ample dinner was tucked away into her tummy, Milly passed the evening in front of the satellite receiver, jumping from one program to the next, laughing at the punchline of a joke she hadn't heard or tapping her feet to a song for the few seconds it lasted until the soap commercial. When that got boring she moved to the floor in front of the bookcases, selecting books by the look of the binding or the cleverness of the title, and no matter which book she picked her mind read the words before she opened it.

Dad needs some new books, she thought. Too bad Meryl wasn't here. She'd show her old boss a trick or two of her own. Milly left the pile of books where it was and headed for her room. Long day tomorrow.

Milly dressed for bed, and as she buttoned her pajama top she let her hand glide over her abdomen. A void lingered there, as if she'd eaten not Meryl's delicious healing soup but a heaping mound of hot buttered nothing, a mirage a starving man might imagine on an empty plate. Yet this was no hunger for food, and when she tried to remember what might've filled that empty place within, the memory shattered on her mind like a soap bubble on her upturned palm.

Milly climbed into bed and drew the blanket up to her chin. The Fifth Moon shone like a great bloodshot eye through the window at her feet. She turned on her side, and the deep creak of the bed's springs sounded like distant rapid gunfire.

---

Author's Afterword

Sorry about the delay, folks. I intended only to take a couple of weeks off, but one thing led to another and weeks became months. But I'm back and ready to go to work again!

**Aine of Knockaine:** I'm not sure why CotP hadn't been reviewed on Mediaminer, either. Thank you for amending that regrettable situation!

To all others who've reviewed and/or patiently waited for more, I offer my thanks!


	11. Honor Among Thieves

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter 10 – Honor Among Thieves

---

In the Saint Helens Valley north of New Oregon, Brilliant Dynamites Neon reached out to hold a star between his fingers.

"Hey, Beremy," he said.

"Yeah, boss?"

"What's the time?"

"23:51."

"Okay." Brilliant Dynamites Neon lit a cigarette. The tip glowed, subsided as he absorbed what nicotine was left in the stale tobacco. His exhaled smoke caught the light of the four full moons and was lost on the wind. Too bad he didn't have his special brand, the sparkly cigarettes his explosives expert Ed Zimm always made for him. Crazy Ed had bought it on the Astoria job, the careless fuck.

When the cigarette was consumed Brilliant Dynamites Neon pinched its dying embers between his fingers and tossed the butt aside. A boarding vehicle had developed a gas leak an hour out of their new hideout, and a bandit couldn't be too careful. Not anymore, he thought, disgusted.

The Bad Lads had fallen on hard times and harder luck since their evacuation from Lottenberg Canyon. The protection money started drying up after the _Flourish _job hit the papers. Then two months ago a routine raid on a column of disabled Cayzen Family tanker-steamers out of JP Town had become an ugly spectacle of tables turned. What his scouts had identified as a small group of mercenary support vehicles became a full platoon of heavily armed and armored assault vehicles no Bad Lad had ever seen before, filled with men who shot too accurately and killed too efficiently for mercs.

Since then he and the Lads had struggled to stay in food, fuel and spare parts, picking off buses and delivery trucks with no time for more profitable ventures. Hell, some of his boys had resorted to wearing plain ugly civvies to pick pockets in New Oregon for cash to buy used tires that weren't worth a shit to begin with. Tonight a chase car caught a flat and had to be left behind for lack of a spare.

Not beautiful. That bitch of a chancellor was squeezing the _cojones_ of every bandit gang south of the equator. And loving it too, the whore.

"Yo," Beremy said, and pointed. "We got headlamps, boss, nor-nor-west, three steamers running single file, no mercenary cover, about twenty iles away."

Brilliant Dynamites Neon grunted acknowledgement, slumped back into his seat. There'd be no one on the inside to take down the heavy gun crews this time and they'd be taking fire on the approach. Lose two, maybe three chasers, easy. Tough luck, rejects. No one joined the Bad Lads for the generous insurance and health benefits. Damn that punk Kaite, anyway. He'd have made a real man of the boy, given the chance, just as Neon's old man had made of him. Then again, when he was Kaite's age he'd cut his own father's throat in his sleep with a broken beer bottle. From ear to ear. The whores Pop brought home always said he had a beautiful smile.

"Hey, boss," Beremy said, "what's so funny?"

"Nothing," he snarled. "Just shut your mouth and keep your eyes open."

"Whatever you say, boss. Fifteen iles now, heading due south. Ten minutes to go-no go point."

"Okay." Yeah, he and Kaite were probably better off this way. He reached into his pocket for another cigarette. The box was empty. Cellophane crackled as he drew the carton out, crushed it, and threw it behind him. Running out of coffin nails before a job. That definitely wasn't beautiful. That waste of skin he'd sent to pinch some had been caught in the act and was cooling his heels in a Kasted City jail. He could see the headlines now: BAD LAD BUSTED FOR SHOPLIFTING. Shit, another two months of this and his gang would be the joke of the territory. Maybe he should just shoot all these dumbasses and start over—

"Uh, boss?"

"What?" Brilliant Dynamites Neon scanned the identical metal faces of his gang. A man in the back held up a gloved hand. "Who the hell are you?"

"Harlin Backintosh, boss," the man said. "I just joined up three weeks ago."

Harlin Backintosh, he thought. Backintosh, Backintosh—oh, yeah. One attempted armed robbery that got him laughed out of New Oregon and an attempted rape in Kasted City that earned him a brutal ass-kicking courtesy of his intended victim, a thirteen-year-old girl. The bandit pickings were getting slim around here.

"Well now, ain't that just gorgeous," Brilliant Dynamites Neon said. "Welcome to our little party. Now what's so goddamn important you gotta interrupt me when I'm thinking?"

Backintosh cringed. "Well, sir, it's just—that is, I've been hearing things, sir."

"You don't say. In that case, I suggest you see a doctor. In the meantime shut your friggin yap."

"No, sir—I mean, yes, but what I've been hearing is a rumor, sir."

"Huh. And what kind of rumor might that be?"

"Well, boss," Backintosh said, "it's like this. Two days ago I got a letter from my mother in New Botany Bay. She says the word on the cellblock is that the Feds aren't after the slaver and bandit gangs. She says the chancellor's after Vash the Stampede."

"So the hell what?" Brilliant Dynamites Neon said. "Beremy's ma was in July when it went up. She'd cut his heart out for a double nickel, ain't that right, Beremy?"

"Hell, yeah," Beremy said. "Five minutes, by the way."

"Okay. So now that we've established that even the queen bitch of the stinking world wants the Humanoid Typhoon dead, what's this thomas-shit rumor got to do with me?"

"In her letter Mama said the chancellor was gonna set a trap for him." Backintosh shuffled his feet. "In New Oregon, boss. Maybe."

"New Oregon. Maybe." Brilliant Dynamites Neon rubbed his chin. That Polo Family pesthole was a trap, all right, but for dumbass tourists and wannabe gamblers. Why the hell would the Stampede want to go there, unless…

He turned to look southwest. A hundred iles away, a red beacon blinked at the very peak of a gray mountain of metal.

"I heard they was after the satellite station," said a Bad Lad. "That they was gonna take it from the Polos and send a call for help to Earth."

"No way, man," said another. "It's that big-ass Ship the Feds want. The salvage rights alone are probably worth billions."

"Four minutes," Beremy said.

Brilliant Dynamites Neon laughed. "Look up there, dumbshits." He pointed at the ominous eye of the Fifth Moon. "If the chancellor thinks she can trap the bastard who did _that_ she's got another thing coming."

"I ain't saying it's a great idea, boss," Backintosh said. "I'm just saying if I were going after the Stampede I'd have the biggest guns I could find and as many of them as I could carry. Remember that ambush back in Astoria Town? The law may be after the Humanoid Typhoon but that doesn't mean they can't and won't kick the shit out of us!"

"All right, all right," Brilliant Dynamites Neon said. "Just shut up a minute." All this yapping was giving him a headache. Astoria. Damn, what a fucking mess. He and the Bad Lads had linked up with the last pathetic remnants of the Roderick Thieves to pull off another big steamer heist in Lottenberg. The Bad Lads were to take the money and jewels. The Rodericks, the women and children.

It was a bloodbath. The steamer column split and maneuvered the Bad Lads in between. Whoever didn't escape the pincer was blown to pieces by artillery fire, a full quarter of his gang.

A few days after the evacuation from Lottenberg he'd sent a maggot out for an Inepril newspaper. The picture on the front page was worth a thousand words: body bags full of Rodericks, surrounded by smiling, posing cavalrymen carrying heavy weapons.

"—gonna do, boss?"

"Screw this shit. I say we let the Feds have the Stampede—"

"—outta the way, let 'em kill each other—"

"Three minutes," Beremy said.

"Shut up!"

"Sorry, boss."

"No, not you, Beremy." Brilliant Dynamites Neon rubbed his eyes. Things were getting confusing.

"Boss," Backintosh said, "all I'm saying is what we're after could be three steamers full of rich tourists or three regiments of cavalry. I'm just asking if it's worth our skins to find out."

The boss of the Bad Lads watched the empty metal faces of his gang. One looked at another, he at a third. Doubt jumped from glance to glance.

"Two minutes," Beremy said.

"Harlin's got a point, boss," said the first Bad Lad. "We ain't what we was a year ago. What say we call it a night, and stick to hijacking buses for a while, till things cool off. What do you say?"

"I agree with you, man," said the second. "Leave the Ship to the Feds and chill out for a while. What do you say, boss?"

Brilliant Dynamites Neon heard a soft click behind him. Beremy had flicked off the safety on his assault rifle.

Damn, Brilliant Dynamites Neon thought. Things were bad if he'd let the situation get this far. Even Beremy was getting nervous. The stink of it was they might be right. Maybe he and the Lads should lay low for a few months. Sure, and if the cavalry got lucky they might find the Stampede and put that fucking monster down for good. Or, even better, the Humanoid Typhoon might do to those glorified thomas jockeys what he'd done to Augusta and the Fifth Moon. Then he and the Lads would be back in business.

In the meantime, no big jobs, no greenbacks or jewels, no headlines. Just hiding in caves, twiddling their thumbs, getting drunk and killing each other out of sheer boredom.

Not beautiful. Not beautiful at all.

Brilliant Dynamites Neon ordered Backintosh and the two others who spoke to stand in front of him.

"What do I say?" he said. "I say you've got guts, standing up to me like that. And you know what?" He drew his pistol. "You'll never be more beautiful than you are now."

Backintosh dropped his weapon, held up his hands. "Now wait, boss, come on, I was only trying to he—" The green glass hemisphere over his right eye exploded. He fell, as did his two compatriots two shots later. The remaining Bad Lads backed away from their bodies.

"Anybody else wanna put in his two cecents?" Brilliant Dynamites Neon glared down the sights of his pistol at his gang. "I didn't think so." He holstered his sidearm. "All right, maggots, you know the drill. Three _Dolphin-_class steamers, fast but lightly armed. We let 'em enter the valley, then we slip in under what few heavy guns they have. Should be no one but the usual mercs inside, so once we get past the artillery we've got nothin to worry about." Brilliant Dynamites Neon leaned over his gang like a cobra over a crippled mouse. "Any of you scumbags feel like getting rich tonight?"

"Yeah!"

"Then lock and load!"

"_Yeah!"_

Brilliant Dynamites Neon slumped back into his seat, pleased by the sweet music of gun bolts, ammo clips, and his gang's renewed enthusiasm. No leadership crisis in the world a little hot lead persuasion wouldn't cure.

"One minute, boss," Beremy said.

"All right, leeches, let's light 'em up!" Electricity crackled, and the trademark lights of the Bad Lad Thieves hummed to neon life. Through the glare he could see the sweeping headlamps of the oncoming steamer convoy.

Parade time. Brilliant Dynamites Neon raised his arm, swept it down. The Bad Lads surged forward.

Brilliant Dynamites Neon kept a tight grip on his seat as his driver guided the vehicle into the desolate bowl of the valley. The neon tubes adorning his vehicle flickered when the wheels made contact with the packed earth of the valley floor. His driver stomped the accelerator, and he exulted in the rush of raw speed. His braided hair stopped drumming his back and floated behind him on the wind. The taste of dust was on his bared teeth.

Like old times, he thought, though most of his memories were too ugly for casual nostalgia. When Pop wasn't slapping him around or dragging him from saloon to saloon he was standing on street corners with a tin cup begging for spare change, and if he didn't come back with enough his old man would beat the shit out of him. Sometimes Pop would sober up enough to look for real work, and his only son would spend his free hours exploring the wastes beyond the yard, looking for dropped coins or lost jewels. What he found most of the time was broken beer bottles and scrap metal not worth the effort to salvage.

In the heat of the day he'd watch the horizon and pretend the fool's water mirage was real, and wonder what he'd do with all that wealth. At night, while Pop was humping Sleazy Sadie or Easy Edith, he'd sneak outside, and if the ground were still hot enough, the fool's water would reflect the stars.

Like old times. Brilliant Dynamites Neon reached for the sky, curled his hand around a flickering white diamond, half expecting to feel a burn on his palm when he closed his fingers around it. The chancellor was after Vash the Stampede, was she? That made sense. The Feds would be sixty billion in the hole to anyone who took him down, but not if the Feds got him first. After the Lottenberg job he'd considered going after the Stampede full time, but after the Fifth Moon Incident he'd taken a long look at his career as an outlaw. Bigger and bigger heists, more dough, better equipment and weapons, to be used for—what? To steal more money and trinkets? To buy—what?

Even if he and the Bad Lads could kill the Humanoid Typhoon—and that, he had to admit, was a possibility remote as the stars—what the hell on this planet was worth sixty billion double dollars?

Brilliant Dynamites Neon lowered his hand, held the distant red beacon between thumb and forefinger. Be nice if that derelict Ship could be fixed, somehow. That would be worth buying. He and the Lads would go to the stars, and all the splendor of the universe would be his for the stealing.

His hand became a fist. Barring that, he'd settle for taking these steamers, packing them full of dynamite, and driving them straight up the chancellor's tight ass.

A half-ile ahead the steamers braked hard and slewed into a tight turn. They were circling the wagons, just like they did in the movies. How cute. The steamers continued their rapid revolution. Clouds of dust covered the wheels, billowed over their bodies until they were completely obscured. The headlamps shut off.

Smoke screen. He hadn't seen it done like that before. Brilliant Dynamites Neon ordered the Bad Lads to slow down. Nothing too dangerous was coming out of there, according to his information, but a bandit couldn't be too careful.

The Bad Lads approached on line, weapons at the ready, wary and watchful for any movement within the dust cloud. A shout went up from a forward vehicle. Brilliant Dynamites Neon squinted into the miasma.

There it is, he thought as the low shapes formed at the cloud's edge. A reception committee, probably mercs, slower vehicles that couldn't keep pace with the fastest of all steamer types. But why stop? For all their camouflage the steamers were sitting ducks now, after he and the Lads blew away their pathetic escort. Whatever they were, they weren't fast. Which meant they were pretty heavy…

Which meant they were armored. Cavalry again. Backintosh was right.

Brilliant Dynamites Neon shouted into his mike, ordering the Bad Lads to concentrate their fire on the center of the oncoming line. If they could break through, board the steamers and take the bridge crew hostage, he'd order them to take their beautiful steamers and crush these thomas-humping bastards like beer cans.

The tank in the center of the line came alive with ricochet sparks. A mortar shell fired from "Whack-job" Winfield's hand-held launcher rocked the target but didn't slow it down. Amidst the fire and flash of the onslaught, Brilliant Dynamites Neon caught a glimpse of the regimental standard protruding from the tank's turret.

The Seventh December. These boys were a long way from home. Too bad they'd never see it again.

Orange flame erupted from the tank guns. Brilliant Dynamites Neon watched the radiator of the adjacent car disintegrate at the same moment the trunk, and the spare gas tanks, erupted in a spray of fuel. The mixture ignited, and his raider, as well as the maggots on board, became balls of flame. The same fate met every third raider on the front rank, and the fire of burning, dying Bad Lads lighted the desert.

The tanks fired a second volley. Fire, sand, and the cries of wounded men exploded up from the deep desert. A quick assessment of the tactical situation told Brilliant Dynamites Neon there'd be no getting rich tonight.

He climbed down and slapped his driver's shoulder. "Get on the radio and tell everybody to get back to the hideout. Every man for himself!" The driver nodded, spoke into his mike as he wrenched the wheel with one hand. The raider tottered on two wheels, then slammed back onto the desert floor.

Shit, Brilliant Dynamites Neon thought. Half his maggots gone already. Maybe if he could draw the tanks away from the steamers he and the Lads could mount a counterattack—

The ground shook when the main artillery on the steamer guns opened fire. Chunks of the wasteland ahead of them became columns of dust and flame, consuming and scattering his Bad Lads like miniature typhoons. If at least he and Beremy could make it back to the hideout he'd have the makings of a new gang, but the fire was so hot and accurate it was only a matter of time before they both bought the ranch.

Perhaps it was time to reconsider the neon lights, he thought, as a whirlwind of noise and fire lifted him into the air. He landed hard. The lights on his outfit flickered and died. His ears were ringing and his car was a gas-fueled inferno. What was left of his driver burned like thomas tallow in a battered lantern.

"Beremy…" he rasped in a throat full of dust. He coughed and spat. "Beremy, you okay?" He clambered to his feet. "Goddamnit, Beremy, where the hell are you?"

"Boss…here…"

Brilliant Dynamites Neon followed the sound of his second-in-command's voice to his wounded body. The front of Beremy's armor near his stomach bore a gaping hole, and his left leg was twisted in a direction nature hadn't intended.

"Sorry, boss," Beremy said between deep gasps. "Really fucked up…this time…"

Brilliant Dynamites Neon glanced toward the steamers. The tanks were slow, but they were still on the advance.

"Don't sweat it," he said. "The Feds just screwed us over real good this time, that's all." He grabbed Beremy's armor at the waist and lifted him like a piece of luggage. He headed for the ridge.

"Hit in the gut…bleeding's pretty bad…"

"And that means what to me, exactly?"

"Nothing…nothing, boss…"

"Right. So just suck it up and quit your bellyaching."

"Not gonna…make it…" Beremy said. "Leave me…"

"You want to be a hero, sacrifice yourself and take all the glory? Fuck you, Beremy. Nobody outshines Brilliant Dynamites Neon, you get me?"

"Get you…boss…"

"That's better. Now do you wanna get rich, or do you wanna piss and moan?"

"Get…rich…"

"That's what I thought. Now shut up and let me think." This was downright ugly. Without a vehicle there was no way they'd outrun those tanks. The moons were as bright as ever, which meant he and Beremy stood out on the desert like two ants on a tablecloth. Their pursuers didn't seem in too big of a hurry. Probably just waiting for them to drop from exhaustion. Thomas-fuckers.

"Getting…cold…"

Brilliant Dynamites Neon lifted Beremy as if he were a small child, held him in front of his face. He stared daggers into the blank green hemispheres.

"Don't you dare fucking die on me, Beremy," he said. "Your ma would never let me hear the end of it." Not to mention gut him with a knitting needle and let his skin hang out to dry. Beremy's ma was one scary old broad, almost as scary as that fucking monster Vash the Stampede…

"S'okay…boss…" Beremy said. "Y'did right…by me…got no…complaints…"

"Goddamnit, Beremy, you are not getting the last word!" Brilliant Dynamites Neon paused on the slope of the ridge for a few deep breaths. Time to quit smoking too, maybe. "If you keep talking like that I am gonna kick your ass off this fucking dirtball, but good!"

At the crest of the ridge, Brilliant Dynamites Neon knew there was no going further, for him or for Beremy. A semicircle of tanks awaited him. He lowered Beremy's body to the ground.

You did right by me, too, Beremy, he thought. Got no complaints, eitherThe turrets rotated until Brilliant Dynamites Neon was the center of an unwanted and fatal attention.

He'd die in prison, that much was certain, either as an old man or as a victim of circumstances the Feds would only be too happy to arrange. Without his gang, without his guns, he would be no more significant than the number on his black and white jumpsuit. He'd be a nobody. He'd live as a nobody, die as a nobody.

What beautiful irony, Brilliant Dynamites Neon thought as he laughed. So often he'd offered this violent alternative to those who came between him and what he wanted, wondering, if not hoping, it might be of some comfort to them as they departed this world. Yet as he stared death in the eye, looking down the gun barrels as if he could see the Reaper and his minions behind the controls, it seemed a fine path to take.

After all, he thought, if you don't go out in high style, in a blaze of glory, what's the point?

Brilliant Dynamites Neon let his dynamo guns fall into his hands. He depressed the triggers, and the sparks lead made on steel were like exploding stars.

_Beautiful—_

---

The satellite station fell quickly, without much fuss.

On the Ship Doctor Samuel Fujiwara lowered his binoculars, and sighed. While he didn't object to the uplink station being in less violent hands, and while it was fortunate so few had died, given the quantity and power of the armaments brought to bear, he hated to see anyone suffer and die for a cause so futile. The chancellor's plan for the dish was going to fail. At the appropriate time, he'd have to explain why.

Doc turned his binoculars to the city and the desert floor three kilometers below. The tanks poured from the city like ants from their hill and formed a perimeter around the Ship.

Time to call Max. Doc let his binoculars hang around his neck, drew the hood of his parka over his bald head. These violent, greedy groundlings weren't going to steal his Ship just yet.

---

Author's Afterword

Um…sorry about the long delay, yet again. I was hampered by the fact that I lost the original rough draft of this chapter after I decided to delete it, then had to start from scratch when I decided to keep it after all. Let my consternation serve as a lesson: Keep _everything _you write.

Next: Meryl's life gets busier, Elizabeth and Vash get down to business, and Maryanne gets "curiouser and curiouser" about her little town's secrets. See you soon!


	12. Deal with the Devil

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Eleven – Deal with the Devil

---

On February 12th, 133 F.A., an unidentified object fell from the sky above May City.

At approximately three o'clock that afternoon, the city constabulary received a call from the owner of a hog farm and slaughterhouse in the northeast quarter. The object in question had landed in his largest pigsty, killing three pigs and scattering porcine excrement over a wide area. The constables at the scene did not attempt to retrieve the artifact.

Through appropriate channels, the matter was made known to the May City council, who alerted the Plant engineering staff. They began a search of the entire area, followed by a careful extraction of the artifact. A bill for six pairs of ruined work boots and eight coveralls was sent to the city council upon completion.

Three days later, after extensive metallurgical and hydromechanical analysis (see Appendix A) the May City engineers concluded that the artifact was exactly what it appeared to be: an ordinary commode, made entirely of steel, with heating elements, controlled by a solid-state thermostat, built into the seat. Patent negotiations are pending.

Subsequent examination of the city Plants' logs showed a small but significant power diversion to the maintenance subroutines of Plant E-5, consistent with the time of the hog farmer's call. Over the objections of the city council, the chief engineer ordered an emergency shutdown of the Plant and contacted the Marius Breskin Kantackle Technical Industrial Union.

At the command console of Inepril City's last functioning Plant, Elizabeth set the report aside and waited, as she had for the last seven hours, wondering what else was going to hit the fan.

That the Inepril city council had not been glad to see her was no surprise. She could hardly blame them, but if there were any suspicion on their part for her role in the near disaster two years ago it hadn't shown. No, this was childish caught-with-hand-in-cookie jar resentment. Did the chairman and his toadies really think they could hide this project from the Union?

Eighty-seven years ago the new Federal government, in an effort to raise money, offered to sell the rights of certain Plants to the municipalities that formed around them. The first chairman of Inepril had taken the offer, and the city had reaped the rewards of untaxed Plant output while leaving the government free of its erstwhile responsibilities for the cost of maintenance and upkeep. As with every raw deal, it seemed good at the time. After decades of comfortable profits Inepril was left with one failing Plant, a devastated economy and a maintenance bill they'd never be able to pay.

Morons. Contrary to the chairman's fears the Union never asked for payment up front and would never have allowed the Inepril Plant to fail had it known. The Union's whole interest was in keeping the Plants functioning, nothing more and nothing less. Money was no barrier at all compared to a city chairman's wounded pride.

Wounded? she thought. More like crushed. Upon her arrival this morning Elizabeth had threatened the chairman with a dozen Union and Federal sanctions and fines unless she was allowed to meet their project leader, a Mr. Ericks Stryfe, personally. This morning the chairman had informed her he was on his way.

Elizabeth settled back in the chair. Condensation dripped from an auxiliary heat exchanger deep in the Plant's workings. She drew a shawl around her shoulders. At least this renegade engineer had sense enough to keep his computers at the proper temperature.

She made a fist and hit the control panel. Writing the self-destruct program for the Plant had taken her three months. Vash, the focus of all her plans, had counteracted her efforts without touching a single control. Somehow—somehow!—he'd escaped from the emitter chamber and stopped the Plant from going into terminal catalepsis.

Right. Just another day's work for a destroyer of cities. Then he'd held her and let her cry like a little girl. Why couldn't the monster look like a monster? Why did he have to be so gentle? Why did the image of his tear-filled eyes fill her thoughts in unguarded moments? Such eyes…

"Hello, Elizabeth. It's been a long time."

She looked up at the sound of his voice. How the years since July had left him untouched by age was a question she'd tried, and had given up trying, to answer. His hair was darker and longer; his clothes, ordinary. The wire spectacles perched on his nose lent him a scholarly air. If Vash truly were dead, the man before her had killed him.

But his eyes…his eyes were still the same.

"Hello, Vash," she said.

---

"Do you still want me dead?" Vash said.

Elizabeth idly brushed imaginary dust from the control panel.

"You gave me a free chance to take my revenge and I didn't accept it," she said. Vash approached, stopped at a workstation two chairs over. She watched him search the readouts and appraise the information they offered. The man knew what was most important.

"Is that a no?" he said.

"That's a no."

"Whew," Vash said, and wiped his forehead with an exaggerated motion. "That makes me feel better. Say, did you happen to see the night-shift engineer when you came in? She's one of my students."

Elizabeth crossed her arms. "Do I look like a babysitter to you, Mister Stryfe?"

"No, I guess not. Probably taking a break." Vash settled into the chair next to hers. He rested his arms on his knees, let his hands hang loose. "So why did you call me here?"

Elizabeth handed Vash the reports on the September and May anomalies. As he read, his boyish face turned serious.

"This could be bad," he said.

"Indeed," Elizabeth said. "I find myself in an odd position, Mister Stryfe. When questions arise regarding unusual Plant behavior I am the one consulted. Professional journals are filled with my papers, each a thorough and universally accepted description of a problem and its solution. My reputation as an authority on Plant operation is second to none. But these—these are quite beyond my knowledge." She tossed the reports onto the control panel. "I don't know what sorcery you used two years ago, but no engineer alive could do with a Plant what you did that day."

The erstwhile Humanoid Typhoon waved his hands. "It's all in the wrists."

"Teach me. I want to learn."

"Come to think of it, it's more like riding a bicycle."

"Mr. Stryfe, could you set aside your penchant for flippancy for a moment and be serious? You agree this might be a systemic problem, a design flaw our ancestors overlooked."

Vash nodded. "I'm not sure what I do can be taught, Elizabeth," he said. "I can fill some gaps in your knowledge, but beyond that, I don't know."

"Do you suppose you could—"

"Are you sure you didn't see the night engineer anywhere?" Vash peered over his glasses, scanned the control room as one might search for a stray mouse. "She's supposed to be on watch for another two hours—"

"Mister Stryfe," Elizabeth said, "As I was saying, do you suppose you can give it a try, given the obvious qualities of your potential student?"

"Qualities?" Vash said, grinning. "Yeah, they're obvious, all right."

Elizabeth followed the direction of his stare, grabbed her parasol and thrust its point into the former outlaw's left shin. Vash howled and jumped about as if he were barefoot and the metal floor had turned red-hot. If Elmore were here she'd let him beat the tar out of this legendary miscreant, but Elmore was on a job in September, and his schedule would not coincide with hers for at least two months.

"Could we get down to business, please?" she said.

"I think that's a great idea," said someone behind her. Instinct, she supposed, or worldly experience, told her to stand still when she heard a revolver cocked behind her head. "We could start with some unfinished business, eh, lady? Show me your hands. Now stand up." She obeyed, and her assailant slipped an arm around hers, grabbing the other and holding her tightly against him. "You too, mister. Hands where I can see them."

Vash raised his hands. "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."

"Keep your mouth shut, mister, and you might leave here alive. All I want is the woman."

Vash shrugged. "I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. Can't we talk about this?"

Elizabeth tried to shake her captor's grip, but his fingers closed like a pneumatic conduit wrench on her arm. She gasped in pain.

"Yeah, that's all this is," he said. "One great big sad misunderstanding, isn't it, lady?"

"Who the hell are you?" Elizabeth said.

"Someone else you tried to kill, I'm afraid," Vash said.

"That's right, lady. You rigged the Plant to explode, and when I got in the way you were going to let me die, too. Is it all coming back now, you heartless bitch?"

Yet another crime to atone for, she thought. "I never meant for that to happen."

"And I've spent the last year and a half thinking about your good intentions." The assassin's lips brushed her ears. "They'll find your body in another year and a half, maybe."

"Let her go, friend," Vash said. "You're making a mistake."

"Trying to stop me would be a mistake. My quarrel's with the lady. Don't force me to kill you."

"You're not going to use a bomb, are you?" Vash said. "At least you had the sense to bring a gun to a gunfight this time."

"Mister, in a second you're gonna get more gunfight than you can—wait, do I know you?"

Vash stepped closer. "I should be offended that you didn't recognize me. Not much for pretty faces, are you?"

"You," the assassin breathed. "It's really you. I heard you were dead."

"As far as the world's concerned, I am. Now let her go."

"Not a chance. I've been waiting to settle this particular score for too long. If anything you should be on my side!"

"I am on your side. No one needs to die here."

Elizabeth kept her eyes focused on Vash's face, astonished to be in this position. Why didn't he do something? He winked at her. Typical—no, he was blinking his eyes. Once.

"This is it, lady," the assassin said. I've been waiting for this." Vash blinked again, hard. Twice. "Don't try to follow me."

Three times. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. Her eyelids flashed bright red, as if the Plant were a giant flash bulb going off. The next moment, her assailant's grip loosened and he was on the floor, covering his face and screaming.

Vash kicked the gun away and ended her would-be abductor's screams with a swift right jab. Vash caught her as her knees buckled.

"Are you all right?" Vash said. She nodded. "Good. You call the sheriff." Elizabeth looked for a telephone while Vash searched for his night engineer. He found her, bound and gagged in a utility closet but otherwise unhurt. He helped the girl, more sheepish than frightened, back to her duty station. These kids look so young anymore, Elizabeth thought.

After the sheriff came and took her would-be killer away, Elizabeth collected her things and prepared to leave.

"Wait," Vash said, and touched her arm.

---

Hours later, watching the moonwashed wasteland outside her darkened cabin's porthole, Elizabeth fiddled with a loose thread on her nightgown. It shouldn't matter, she thought. Spend enough time with someone and you'll find at least one habit or tic that annoys you. After the September job Elmore had escorted her to dinner, and afterward they'd shared a seat in the steamer's observation lounge. It had taken him an hour to find the courage to put his arm around her shoulders, and when he did she'd let her head rest on his chest, content to do nothing more for the next few hours than enjoy this man's company, prepared to surrender to a short nap—perhaps more, if mood and circumstance allowed. But she'd been yanked back from the brink of sleep by a sound she could only describe as a bucket of ball bearings poured onto a wooden floor. Elmore was fast asleep, his head thrown back, the horrible noise blaring from his wide open mouth.

It shouldn't matter, Elizabeth thought, pulling the string, leaving an ich-long slit in the pink sandworm silk of her gown. If love was blind to the faults and idiosyncrasies of the beloved, nothing should come between her and what, or whom, she desired.

Therefore, she reasoned, it shouldn't matter at all that, before the Plant facility exploded with light, she'd seen an eye open in Vash's left palm.

"I'll teach you what I can," he'd said, after she explained in full the gravity of the problem. That, and a gentle reminder that there was still a price on his head.

She caressed her arm, where Vash had touched her, as if his hand were still there.

Such lovely green eyes…

---

Two thousand iles south of Inepril, in a little known and seldom visited town two hundred iles northeast of LR, the marshal of Cornelia Territory leaned in the doorway of her empty jail and stifled a jaw-cracking yawn.

After the sale of the first delivery of water from the town's revived well, applications for use of the largesse poured into city hall faster than the staff could process them. An elementary school rose on the ruins of a wind-wasted thomas barn. A new hotel, the Pure Paradise, sprouted on the town's north edge. The burst of construction meant plenty of work for everyone. The town grew, business boomed, and the people contented themselves with working, eating, and making new citizens behind the closed doors and windows of their proliferating homes.

After today's sale of the second delivery, the mayor had declared a holiday. Most of the town would be in the saloon, celebrating.

Maryanne blinked dry eyes, lifted her watch from its pocket, read it in the light pouring from the windows of the Last Chance Saloon across the street. The party was just getting started.

About time something around here did, she thought. If this law and order crap kept up she'd lose her expense account and have to fight for it again when the need arose. Maybe she could justify a couple of deputies, if only to have someone to talk shop with. She shook her head. Inflict this horrible, lingering career death on some other poor slob? Not a chance.

A century after the establishment of the Marshal's Service the law enforcement profession, especially at the Federal level, was still a man's world. Not a problem. All a girl had to do was be a better cop than any two men put together. Here, in this sleepy little town where nothing much happened beyond an occasional drunken brawl, Maryanne would have few chances to earn the townspeople's respect. Until she did, her badge would be nothing more than a pretty brooch a high society lady might wear.

Tonight might be her chance, she thought.

On her first official day of work, Maryanne had searched and sorted through the late sheriff's records. No regular offenders, no unsolved cases. Nothing to suggest this little pinprick of a town had any reputation for corruption or conspiracy. The sheriff's official documents bore the expected yellow tint and brittle texture of age, and there were no suspicious gaps in the files' dates. The sheriff had signed each himself, in ink, with a swift and elegant hand.

Attempts to interview the townspeople met with limited success. When Maryanne's questions weren't met by apologies, excuses, blank looks or averted eyes, all she learned was that the sheriff had made no enemies and was well liked and deeply respected by all who knew him. That, and that the mayor had found the sheriff's body at the base of the ridge west of town. His Honor had fidgeted and perspired under her close questions, but he'd never asked for a lawyer and he'd never incriminated himself. "He died in the line of duty" was all the mayor would say.

Maryanne pressed her investigation until the blank looks and averted eyes became sullen glances and hostile stares. The mayor himself had threatened to send a formal complaint to the Chief Marshal in December City. Whatever it was the town was hiding, she was close.

Another glance at her watch. Showtime.

---

"And in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen," the mayor said, raising his glass, "I'd like to thank again the hardworking well diggers who made our town's newfound wealth possi—"

Maryanne parted the swinging doors. Her footsteps thumped on the dusty wood floor like distant explosions.

"What'll it be, marshal?" said the bartender when she reached the bar.

"Glass of beer, please," she said. "Excuse me, Your Honor, I didn't mean to interrupt. Please, continue."

"Yes," the mayor said. "Yes, marshal, thank you. As I was saying, I'd like to thank the hardworking well diggers who made our town's newfound wealth possible." The mayor finished his drink in a gulp and left his glass on the bar. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Leaving so soon, Mister Mayor?" Maryanne said. "It's only nine o'clock. The party's just getting started."

"Yes, marshal, well, that is, I have some pressing business I must attend to—"

"Of course, Your Honor, I understand. But I was hoping you would do me the honor of raising your glass with me once before you go."

"Yes, marshal," the mayor said, and swept his hand through his slick and shining hair. "I would be honored, naturally."

"Thank you." The bartender filled the mayor's glass. "Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to offer a toast of my own." Maryanne raised her beer. "To my predecessor, your late sheriff. May he rest in peace."

Maryanne took a drink, licked foam from her upper lip. The burly bartender leaned on the bar, hands empty, eyes shrouded by thick black brows. He stared straight at her, his face calm and impassive. The mayor's glass wobbled on the bar where he'd dropped it. His face reddened.

"Mister Mayor," Maryanne said, "you didn't drink with me."

"Marshal, that was in very poor taste."

The bartender's eyes flicked right. Maryanne followed his glance. The customer heading for the door was a person of interest who, after a few pointed questions one afternoon last week, had graced Maryanne with a look full of both hate and remorse.

"Good evening, Cyril," she said. "Buy you a drink?"

Cyril stopped. "No thanks, marshal," he said. "Gotta get home."

"Of course, of course," she said, keeping her right arm extended down her side. "You won't mind if I call on you tomorrow, will you?"

Cyril bunched his fists. "I've done nothing wrong, marshal. None of us has. I don't know why you keep—"

"Anybody else?" Maryanne said. "I'm feeling generous tonight." Around a round table, the players of a poker game held their cards like fans, still, as if frozen in time. Under the balcony, a barmaid's leg hung naked and exposed on the thigh of the Circle J shopkeeper's husband, who was holding the barmaid in one hand and a mug of beer in the other.

"So, no one here wants to drink with me, trade a tall tale or two? Fine. I'll do the talking." Maryanne finished her beer. This is it, she thought, and leaned on the bar as casually as she could manage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your sheriff is dead," she said. "Someone in this town knows who killed him."

"Marshal, please," the mayor said, "I never said anyone killed him."

"True. You were also the one who found his body. The only one."

"Madame, I do not think I like what you're implying."

Maryanne leaned forward, looked down into his eyes. "Mister Mayor, I'm not implying anything. Someone in this town is a cop killer." She lowered her hand to her sidearm. The rumble of chairs scraping and bodies moving was the only sound in the saloon. "If you know who it is, or have any suspects in mind, you'd better tell me."

The mayor looked like a well-dressed red balloon, ready to burst and send flesh and bone flying into the rafters.

"I know what you're trying to do," he whispered. "I won't let you, I won't let him be slandered like this…"

"Mister Mayor, I'm just trying to get at the truth—"

"Damn you, you know the truth!" The mayor threw his glass. The bartender caught it before it hit the mirror.

"Maybe I do," she said. "There's more, isn't there?"

The mayor seemed to deflate. He stared at the floor.

"Who killed him, Mister Mayor?"

"If you'll just give me a chance—"

"_Who?"_

"He did, marshal," the mayor said. "The sheriff killed himself." A sob escaped him. "And I couldn't stop him, the damn fool, I couldn't stop him…"

Almost there, Maryanne thought.

"Len and Lucretia were my dearest friends," said the mayor. "He changed, our sheriff did, when she and the baby died. Turned inward, went cold, I—I hardly spoke to him for years. Then…and then…I just didn't want Len remembered that way, is all." The mayor put his hands to his head, rent his perfect shiny coiffure into thin greasy threads. "I'm sorry, marshal. I'm so sorry, everyone. He changed, and we took advantage of him—"

"And you can stop right there, Mister Mayor," the bartender said. He held the biggest pump-action shotgun Maryanne had ever seen.

"Mister Burnnock," the mayor said, "what's the meaning of this?"

"The meaning, Your Honor," said the bartender, "is that if there's any confessing to be done, we'll all do it together."

"Damn it, Fatty, we had a deal," said a man in the crowd. Others murmured agreement.

"And I say the deal's off. We got ourselves a water strike. We've got us a marshal. In a few months we'll have us a vote in the House of Citizens. We've got nothing to lose now. It's over."

"I say it isn't," Cyril said. "I say we keep quiet—"

"And I say," Burnnock said, pointing his shotgun, "you of all people have no business saying anything. Damn it, man, you could've killed that girl—"

"It was her fault!" Cyril said. "Her fault for getting in the way!"

"Didn't see you sticking your neck out, Fatty," said someone in the crowd.

"That's right, I was a part of it, and I'm not half as ashamed as I ought to be. I'm putting an end to this, tonight."

"Should've kept your mouth shut, Fatty," said another—and ducked.

_BOOM._

Maryanne and the other bar patrons copied his motion, holding their hands to their ears. When the smoke cleared, all that remained of the swinging doors were the hinges and a few smoldering splinters. Metal clashed on metal as the bartender ejected the spent round and jacked another into the chamber.

"No one threatens me in my own place," Burnnock said. "And the next one of you, man or woman, who goes for the door gets one in the back. Understand?"

No one moved, except to set toppled chairs upright and sit down.

"I'm tired of listening to all of you," Burnnock said. "I'm tired of you reprobates whining about how you were just going along with everyone else, how those dashing silver-tongued truck-driving devils talked you into tying that poor fella to a bumper and dragging him all over hell's half hectacre. Tired of you killing your guilt and your nightmares with booze while your wives and children suffer for it. Now what we're going to do is sit here and hash this out—with our new marshal's kind permission."

Maryanne stuck her pinky in her ear. No bleeding, thank goodness. Her eardrums were intact.

"I wish you'd told me earlier," she said. "I strongly suggest everyone take Mister Burnnock's advice." She reached into her pocket, set five twenty double-dollar bills on the bar. "First round's on me."

"I'm not telling you shit," Cyril said. "I haven't done anything—"

The bartender jabbed a finger at a barstool. "Cyril, you will sit right here and you will drink your fill by our good marshal's courtesy and you will spill your guts to the lady—or I'll spill 'em for you. What's it gonna be? Come on, man. Haven't you heard confession is good for the soul?"

Cyril came to the bar, gave Maryanne a sullen look.

"Whiskey," he said, and the rest of the patrons followed suit. Maryanne remained at the bar, laying out cash from her discretionary fund, following the conversation as best she could.

"—largest water strike in the world, now—"

"—dug the well by herself, almost. Hope those girls are okay—"

"—warn't him, no one's tetched 'nuff t' take a bullet fer—"

"—government'll pay triple for natural water end of next year—"

"—know, you old coot, just have another drink—"

"—glad the Feds sent us a marshal, keep things—"

"—feel better just talking about it—"

"—not asking her. Besides, Your Honor, you're married—"

"—leaving? Come on, marshal, just one more round—"

---

Home at last, Maryanne retrieved her housewarming present and an empty cup from the cupboard. She carried them to her kitchen table and sat down.

Those Bernardelli agents sure get around, Maryanne thought as she uncorked the bottle. Better than being stuck in a one-thomas town in the middle of nowhere. Then again, it wasn't going to be a one-thomas town for long. She'd be looking for deputies after all.

Maryanne poured two fingers worth of whiskey, then made it three. Now that the boil on the town's conscience had been lanced, the people would be more free to trust her, and she them. Mutual trust was important. Almost as important as good judgment.

She drained her cup and poured another three fingers. The bottle chattered on the rim of the cup. Big bad marshal, taking on an entire town full of angry people all by herself. That's good judgment, isn't it. If that bartender ("Faustus M. Burnnock, at your service, ma'am") hadn't stepped in with that street howitzer of his…a lot of people might be dead at her hands, and she at the hands of whoever was left standing.

Poor judgment, Maryanne thought. That's what her last performance review said. Poor judgment, overconfidence, post-traumatic stress, recommended six months desk duty. Two deputies dead and God knew how many kids—

Maryanne wondered at her empty hand and aching arm. Had she thrown something? The coffee cup lay in jagged fragments under the window in the opposite wall.

The marshal of Cornelia Territory drew a bath, and washed away the smell of smoke and whiskey. After toweling herself dry she dressed in her nightshirt. Her service automatic was under her pillow where she'd left it.

In her dreams she approaches a well. The rope in her hand strains under the weight of the bucket. She tips it, and blood, cold and coagulated, spills onto the ground.

---

Author's Afterword

Next: Meryl's father accepts an invitation from a Ship's doctor. Vash comes home with a gift. And Meryl has no clue what it all might mean. See you soon!


	13. What a Piece of Work

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Twelve – What a Piece of Work

---

"Father, I quit."

Meryl slid a manila folder from the stack on her desk. She leafed through the dry papers, wrinkling her nose at the musty scent. Another old memorandum on the appropriations budget, significant enough at the time to be sent to the president and owner of Stryfe Consultants but never read.

She drew her index finger down a legal pad full of her notes. Just as she thought, the extra toilet paper for the laboratory restrooms had been purchased with Research and Development's discretionary fund. Thank heavens. She'd been so worried. She signed the memo, stamped the folder for disposal, and chose another.

"Father, I respectfully tender my resignation," she said. If this was a joke on Father's part, it wasn't funny. Last week, Father had called her into his paperwork madhouse of an office and explained that the government had invited him to a series of symposia on the future of technological development. He would be out of the office for at least two weeks.

"Even that hermit Max Simon will be there," Father said as he snapped his briefcase shut. "The meetings will be closed to the public, so if you need to contact me go through Mrs. Hammersham. In the meantime…"

"Why don't you see what you can do about these old files?" Meryl said, slashing her signature across another pointless memo. "Make yourself useful. Shoulder to the wheel, nose to the grindstone. One folder at a time. Work hard and I'll bring you a present."

Meryl slapped the folder shut, winced, and shook her tingling hand. A present. That would be nice. It would be even nicer if she were still twelve years old and slaving away after school in her old broom closet office.

"I'm sorry, Father," she said. "You'll have to find someone else. Father, you may consider this my two weeks' notice. Father, you can take this job and—"

The phone rang.

"Stryfe Consultants—oh, hello, Mother. I know it's late, I'm sorry. No, I'm a big girl, Mother, I can make my own bed. Yes, that sounds delicious. Do you need me to stop at the Circle J on the way home? I'll be leaving within the hour. Yes, Mother, I promise. See you soon."

Meryl hung up, stretched and yawned. Beyond the pool of light from her lamp, her office was a study in blues and grays. The latest drawing of the company's prototype harvester lay on the drafting table in the corner, awaiting her inspection and approval. Engineering manuals and specifications filled the shelves over the table. In the other corner was the wooden stepladder she needed to reach them.

What a fraud I am, Meryl thought. A child turned loose in a grownup's world. Dealing with Father's leftover business was bad enough. To pretend every day that she could make informed decisions and delegate responsibilities to people who knew this work far better than she did was worse. Even so, she'd earned a modicum of wary respect from her division by inviting as few comparisons as possible with Mr. Torix, retired these three months. This office had been his for almost a decade. A burglar would feel more at home here than she ever would.

Meryl plucked her new watch from her vest pocket. Seven-fifteen. Ericks—Vash—was out of town on business, summoned by his Inepril employers. She'd hoped they'd have the whole weekend for themselves, but Vash had explained by telegram that he'd be gone a few days longer. She'd replied in kind, assuring him of her love and telling him to get his sorry butt home.

My husband, the responsible one, she thought. Who would've guessed. And having him out of the house had helped her make progress on Father's dumb project, too. Now she regretted her cool send-off on the steamer dock. Making up for that was going to be fun.

The pile of folders on her blotter wasn't going to get any smaller tonight. Meryl slipped her watch back into its pocket. She filled her briefcase with the contents of her in-box, tossed her suit jacket over her arm, turned out the light and shut her door.

At her assistant's desk Meryl took a pencil from Monica's pencil cup and scribbled a note on Monica's day planner. Meryl needed more background information on agricultural technology for the Thompson project and wanted Monica to see to it first thing Monday morning.

Meryl turned off her assistant's lamp and dug her car keys from her purse. She ran for the elevator, anxious to avoid a late-for-dinner lecture.

---

"Quite a sight, isn't it, sir?"

In the shadow of the Ship, Matthew Stryfe shuddered.

"Yes it is," he said, at a loss to say much else. The tall captain escorted him through the cavalry's perimeter of armored vehicles with quick strides. Mr. Stryfe struggled to keep up, coughing at occasional billows of Diesel exhaust as the tank crews prepared their machines for another shift. Turrets worked back and forth to enhance lubrication, and when the guns came to rest they were pointing outward, away from the Ship.

At the end of the labyrinth of men and machines, the captain halted.

"Here, sir," he said. "We wait here."

"I can see why," Mr. Stryfe said. Craters, about a yar across and a hundred yarz apart, dotted the desert in a rough circle around the Ship's impact point. Twenty yarz beyond the cratered perimeter an abandoned tank protruded from a solidified puddle of glazed earth.

"The Ship-dwellers have made it plain that we are not to approach or attempt to board without permission," the captain said. "Why the hell would we? The damn thing's ten iles tall. Even if we made it past their defenses we'd need portable oxygen just to get to the middle of the thing."

Mr. Stryfe agreed it seemed futile, though the military aspects of the situation were of no interest to him. He'd accepted the government's invitation to its symposia, expecting to hear a full week of sleep-inducing lectures, only to be directed to an empty office in the Federal building's deepest basement, where only Max Simon was waiting. He didn't remember much after that; considering the shock he'd experienced upon Mr. Simon's offer he was astonished to find himself alive, let alone conscious.

"Dr. Fujiwara will meet you upon your arrival," Simon had said, shoving him out of the office. Fifteen minutes later he was on a _Humpback_-class steamer bound for New Oregon.

The captain pointed. "Look there, sir."

Mr. Stryfe shaded his eyes. A figure was descending from the Ship in what appeared to be a wire cage. When it reached the ground, its passenger swung aside a door and came forward. Whoever it was seemed to be taking his time, as if burdened by a heavy load, but the Ship and its proximity destroyed all perspective, and after a quick calculation Mr. Stryfe realized the man would have to traverse an ile of open desert on foot to just to reach him.

When he did, the short, bald man unslung a canteen, one of four he carried on his shoulders. He drained the contents in one long drink, swept off his floppy hat, mopped his brow with his sleeve, and shrugged off another canteen.

"Mr. Stryfe, I presume," he said, and extended it upward.

---

The wire cage swayed as it left the ground. Mr. Stryfe, trying to ignore the oppressive metal hulk over his head, held on to the rail as if the fate of all humanity depended on the strength of his grip. In less than a minute, to his heart thumping horror, Mr. Stryfe found himself well over five hundred feels above ground—only halfway up—in a hand welded wire cage held aloft by a braided metal cable that, to his engineer's eye, had seen better days.

"Just one of the many ways we discourage visitors, Mr. Stryfe," Dr. Fujiwara said. "Don't worry, the cable is quite strong."

The cage stopped. The doctor, after a full minute of polite assurances that he was perfectly safe, convinced him to release his death grip on the cage and led him onto a platform. Across the platform a dashed yellow line showed a door in the Ship's hull. Dr. Fujiwara's fingers danced over a keypad in a glowing square next to the door. The door recessed, slid aside.

"Your discomfort is quite understandable," he said. "But I must warn you that you'll need a sterner constitution, as well as an open mind, once we get inside."

Mr. Stryfe entered the Ship, grateful that he might yet see his wife and daughter again. Didn't these people know anything about safety?

The doctor followed and the door slid back into place. A square of light in the ceiling revealed a room little larger than Maddie's bedroom closet. Another door was in the opposite wall—ah, an airlock. That's what these spaces were called.

Dr. Fujiwara's hand hovered over a switch.

"I invite you to hold onto your stomach," he said. "Some of our guests have found this aspect of their visit disconcerting. You might wish to close your eyes as well."

Mr. Stryfe braced himself on the handrail. He closed his eyes. At once there was a deep, quiet hum and a bizarre suggestion of shifting forces, as if he'd leaned too far ahead for a dropped coin and was about to pitch forward onto his face. His sense of balance returned when the humming stopped. He followed the doctor through the airlock's opposite door, into a network of crisscrossing corridors with curved walls. His guide's footfalls were light, almost catlike. He listened for his own footsteps. Not a sound.

Dr. Fujiwara stopped at a doorway.

"We can talk in here," he said. Inside, four chairs surrounded an ordinary metal table. A kiosk in one corner held a monitor and keyboard.

Mr. Stryfe sat while Dr. Fujiwara thumbed an intercom switch beside the door. A young female answered, agreed to the doctor's request for coffee. Reluctantly, Mr. Stryfe thought, amused at the girl's helpful-yet-not-helpful tone of voice.

The doctor took the seat opposite from his and searched his face with dark eyes.

"How do you feel, Mr. Stryfe?" he said.

"I feel fine. And prepared to discuss business whenever you are."

"Ah, yes, business." Dr. Fujiwara folded his hands on the table. "I speak for the others on the Ship when I say we recognize your government's claim to salvage rights. Under the terms of the UEF Colonial Charter, we became citizens of this world the moment our Ship touched the ground—which is why we are puzzled and disturbed by the presence of so many soldiers and armored vehicles. I have assured your government that we pose no threat."

"I'm not a soldier, Doctor, nor am I a politician. I'm in no position to help you with that. I hate it as much as you do, in fact."

"Very well. I will register another formal protest. Now for the matter of access. We believe—that is I, Mr. Simon and other leaders believe—that releasing too much lost technology all at once will do more harm than good."

"My primary interest is in the back engineering. That will take months, if not years. There's no need for concern in that respect."

"But so much new technology could make a few men very rich." Dr. Fujiwara stared at him, eyes neutral in a politely blank face.

"Doctor Fujiwara," Mr. Stryfe said, "I am neither a salvage broker nor a prospector, here to strip your Ship for parts like a stolen car. I can only make money if I can duplicate your technology well enough to make it work. You are not required to assist me in any way."

"Do forgive me, sir, I intended no insult. My point is simply this. Our ancestors' knowledge has a wide range of possible applications, not all of them benign or life affirming. We humans have never failed to see the profitable side of armed conflict, you see."

Mr. Stryfe fidgeted. The tanks circling the Ship rode the desert on his company's track design.

"Your point is well taken, doctor," he said. The door opened, and a young woman with pigtails carried a tray to the table. The aroma of coffee filled the room.

The girl cocked her head. "Have we met? You look familiar."

"Jessica, don't stare at our guest," Dr. Fujiwara said.

Jessica put her hands on her hips. "I wouldn't stare if you introduced me."

The doctor sighed. "Of course. Do forgive me. This is Mr. Matthew Stryfe, from December City. Mr. Stryfe, this is Jessica, one of our Ship's few remaining young people."

Mr. Stryfe accepted the coffee Jessica offered. She and the doctor argued briefly—something about overdue calculus homework—and after a "Hmph!" Jessica flounced out, glancing back at him again as the door closed. Dr. Fujiwara chuckled.

"They're a handful at that age, aren't they?" Mr. Stryfe said.

"Jessica in particular. I'd hoped Brad's—well, I'd hoped recent events might've imparted some degree of wisdom and temperance. They have, but not to the extent I'd like."

"They do grow up eventually. Give her time."

"You have children, Mr. Stryfe?"

He drew out his pocket watch. The back surface snapped open to reveal the portrait Meryl had given him after her last promotion. Her youthful anger was gone, leaving a kindness and affection he'd only dared hope to see a year ago.

"She's lovely," Dr. Fujiwara said. "I can see why he—" He glanced up, cleared his throat.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stryfe. It's nothing. Please, let's continue."

The rest of the meeting proved productive. Dr. Fujiwara, representing the interests of the Ship community, agreed that any technology left intact would be released at the discretion of Max Simon and his agents at a rate necessary to avoid economic or social upheavals. Petitions for the release of technology would come to his office.

"And those, such as yourself, who wish to examine the blueprints and schematics in our library will have to come here until a remote access system can be established. Will that be satisfactory, Mr. Stryfe?"

He nodded. This trip had gone better than he'd thought.

"Pardon me, doctor," he said, "but you haven't said anything about your needs, apart from the soldiers I can't help you with. Isn't there something you and your people want in exchange?"

"We want only what you want, sir. The chance to live our lives in peace. For a hundred and thirty years we've kept what help we could've offered the world to ourselves, and now we have a chance to make amends."

Dr. Fujiwara stood. "And perhaps one day we will all leave this terrible place, and go home."

---

Home, Mr. Stryfe thought.

Bed, nightstand, lamp, bathroom: For thirty years, he'd spent his days and nights away from home in rooms just like this one. A window, if he were lucky. A speaking tube or even a telephone if he felt like being extravagant. That this particular room was an ile above the world on a derelict spacecraft only added to his melancholy.

At least he wasn't a hostage. Dr. Fujiwara had offered him the opportunity to return to his own room at the Cascades Hotel, but the prospect of riding that thousand-feel elevator from hell twice in one day had left him nauseated and dizzy. The doctor had taken pity on him and offered him lodging.

Mr. Stryfe opened his suitcase, grateful to the brave soul who'd gone to retrieve it. Everything Madeline had packed was there, even his shaving kit. That someone on the Ship had searched his luggage was likely, but the contents of his suitcase showed no evidence of being handled. Whoever it was had even let him keep his straight razor.

And why not? That cavalry captain was right. Might as well try to conquer the world with a box cutter.

After a shower, which proved to be an education in itself, Mr. Stryfe toweled himself dry and dressed for bed. The rewards of this trip would make Stryfe Consultants the biggest back engineering firm on the planet. He'd retire a wealthy man, spend more time with Maddie, take a long vacation, maybe to that North Pole resort where they'd spent their second anniversary.

His watch, a gift from his wife, had been handmade by the best jeweler in Inepril. He thumbed a catch, slid the outer cover from its hinge on the side, and stood the two circular halves on the nightstand. His wife, and the daughter they had loved into being on that long ago anniversary, smiled at him. In December, it was already tomorrow. Madeline was preparing breakfast, collecting the newspaper from the front step. Meryl was on her way to the office. And Ericks—who knew what that boy was doing? Half the time his son-in-law behaved like a brain-injured circus clown.

Plant engineer my foot, Mr. Stryfe thought. If that boy's an engineer then I'm a bounty hunter. True, Ericks did seem knowledgeable about Plant systems and the like, but no engineer worth his water would let a goofy, no-account pretender anywhere near a—

The door hissed open. A flashlight beam played across his face.

"What?" he muttered. "Is something wrong? Who are you?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Stryfe," Dr. Fujiwara said. "But there's something very important I must show you."

"Something to show me? Like what?"

"The real reason you were invited here. Come, we must be quick."

---

The tram made no sound, but the impression Mr. Stryfe got from the passing tunnel walls and the rushing air was of incredible speed. Now and then the gray transit tube parted to offer brief glimpses of immense spaces full of intricate machinery or distant hectacres of hibernation beds, until the tram headlights revealed a circular wall that parted down the middle as the vehicle approached. Dr. Fujiwara warned him to put on his goggles and oxygen mask, and when they passed through the opening the outside cold seemed to bite into his bones until he remembered to turn on his parka's thermal sheath.

The next gap in the tunnel did not end, and opened onto black nothingness. From then on, Mr. Stryfe stared only at the strange trackless path straight ahead.

The tram stopped at a platform. Dr. Fujiwara led him to a door that dominated the opposite wall. Beside the door was a handle inside a recessed circular opening. Dr. Fujiwara put on his goggles and face mask and urged him to do the same.

"And you'll need these," the doctor said, and placed two pieces of molded plastic in his hand. "Motion-sense dampers. They'll interrupt and coordinate the electrochemical impulses of your inner ear."

"A cure for motion sickness," Mr. Stryfe said.

"Something like that, though these are much more potent." Dr. Fujiwara demonstrated how to use them. "And there are dangers from long-term use. Despite all this I must warn you again, Mr. Stryfe, you will need to keep your fear in check."

Mr. Stryfe inserted his pair of dampers. "I'm ready."

"As you will, sir." Dr. Fujiwara opened the door onto another airlock. This time there was no nausea-inducing dance of forces, only a hiss of escaping air. Mr. Stryfe swallowed to make his ears pop.

The outer door opened onto a floodlit space not much larger than his office. Beyond the harsh white light was black nothingness. Mr. Stryfe flinched as the door slid shut behind him.

The doctor raised something to his mask and spoke. The lights died, revealing a ribbon of green translucence around the platform's edge.

Mr. Stryfe took a step back. For heaven's sake, didn't these people believe in handrails? He squinted into the dark, searching for a point of reference. There—three rectangular holes of soft moonlight in the flat, implacable void.

"You see them?" the doctor said. "Good, now look again."

Obviously he and the doctor were standing outside the Ship, but either the dampers or his imagination were playing games on his sense of perspective. One did not normally look sideways and see a sky full of stars. The distant lights of New Oregon twinkled at him through the cold night air, except it was not a city but a gold-speckled map crisscrossed by dark streets. Beyond the flat, implacable void before him the whole world was tilted, as if it were a painting turned askew on an immeasurably vast wall.

Mr. Stryfe stepped back, pressed his shoulders into the unyielding metal of the Ship's hull. His sense of balance told him that all was well. His mind told him that he should be prostrate on the platform, scrambling for a handhold, lest he slide into space and fall to his death in the intersection of Rainier and Main.

"Artificial gravity," Dr. Fujiwara said. "I didn't bring you out here to frighten you, Mr. Stryfe. I brought you here to show you our most closely guarded secret, one that will have implications for both your people, and mine. Now take these binoculars and watch the rightmost hole."

Mr. Stryfe raised his hand, as if surprised to find something there. His hands trembled as he adjusted the focus. The hole loomed large in his field of view.

"Another thirty seconds," Dr. Fujiwara said. "You'll feel a slight bump but don't be alarmed."

Don't be alarmed, Mr. Stryfe thought. I'm standing on a platform the size of a postage stamp who knew how many iles above New Oregon and the only thing between me and certain death is the best damn magic trick I've ever seen. Why would I be alarmed?

"Ten seconds," Dr. Fujiwara said.

Mr. Stryfe held the view as steady as he could, until for a moment he felt himself falling, as if the metal under his feet had vanished and reappeared just in time to catch him. He steadied himself, peered through the binoculars. The edges of the hole were white-hot, cooling to orange, then to red. When he looked again the hole was gone.

"I—I don't understand," he said.

"I think you do," the doctor said.

"How long has this been going on?"

"On this Ship, almost from the beginning. How much do you know about the SEEDs Project, Mr. Stryfe?"

"Next to nothing," he said. "Just what I learned in school."

"Like everyone else in your world. And just like everyone else, you were taught that most of the records were lost in the Fall. Most of them were, except ours." Dr. Fujiwara crossed his arms and sighed. "I like to think of myself as a scientist, Mr. Stryfe, curious and unafraid of new knowledge. Yet I must confess there is much about our human race that I wish I'd never learned."

"Such as?"

"The records suggest some kind of environmental catastrophe compounded by overpopulation, but the exact circumstances behind our ancestors' departure from Earth are unclear. What is clear is that the majority of them did not represent the best and the brightest humanity had to offer. In fact, many of them were what our earthbound cousins considered criminals."

"Why go to all this trouble just to dispose of criminals?"

Dr. Fujiwara stared at him. "Whatever you or I might think of humanity now, Mr. Stryfe, our people knew something of compassion. If you had a planet full of overcrowded prisons and a cheap means of getting rid of them, apart from mass executions, wouldn't you use it?"

"I—well, I'm not sure. I'm an engineer, not a philosopher."

"I find that surprising, considering so many philosophers at the time were considered criminals. Be that as it may, the bulk of our ancestors were considered undesirables, and shipped off to fend for themselves—or, as it turned out, to die painlessly during an unprogrammed atmospheric reentry."

Mr. Stryfe shivered in his parka. His grandfather had told him stories about the Fall, passed down from father to son to grandson. The first to awake had learned what had happened, but never why.

"These Ships were built for interstellar travel," the doctor said, "designed to endure the rigors of acceleration, to survive cosmic radiation and debris and protect their passengers from the same. With every discovery of a new world a five-person crew was awakened from hypersleep to collect data and determine whether the planet could be safely settled."

Dr. Fujiwara approached, grabbed Mr. Stryfe's elbow.

"No five people ever born could perform all the maintenance necessary to keep the Ships functioning. Human beings did not maintain these Ships, nor did human beings build them. And with time, those hands can rebuild them."

"Hands? What are you talking about? Whose hands?"

Dr. Fujiwara spoke into his comlink. The floodlights kicked on.

"Come, Mr. Stryfe," he said. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

---

Matthew Stryfe did not sleep that night. Nor did he speak, beyond the automatic courtesies a guest extended to a gracious host as he left the doctor behind on the entry platform. Nor did his stomach tremble or rebel at the horror of being so high off the ground.

When the cage touched the ground he stumbled across the moat of desert, accepted the cavalry captain's greetings with a kindness that might've seemed to him curt and insincere. Mr. Stryfe offered a weak apology, declined the captain's offer to drive him to the ticket office.

Within an hour, he was in a first class cabin on the first steamer to Little Jersey. Meryl liked to travel first class. He'd been meaning to discuss the matter with her, impress upon her the virtues of frugality, but now the need didn't seem so urgent. Here there was no soundproofing, but the engine's relative quiet added to his much-needed sense of privacy.

Mr. Stryfe held his hand to the warm glass of the porthole and contemplated another hand, long and graceful, that was not a reflection of his.

---

"Father, dinner's ready."

Meryl held the back door as it closed, wiped her hands on her apron. In the kitchen Mother was putting the final touches on dinner, the mounds of salmon patties and fried potatoes Father liked best after a business trip. Comfort food, he'd always called it. Meryl agreed, allowing the scents to call up her own warm memories.

A crash sounded from the dining room. Ericks had dropped one of Mother's best china plates. Again. Disgusted, Meryl removed the apron, wadded it up and threw it into a hamper. Why Mother still let him help set the table after losing three plates and two crystal wine glasses in four weekends was beyond understanding. Ready to give Vash a piece of her mind, Meryl headed for the dining room, but stopped at the sound of Mother's gentle, reassuring voice.

Meryl let her shoulders sag. Mother sounded prepared to defend her miscreant son-in-law, and there was no getting past Mother's defenses.

Father hadn't come in for dinner. She went to the back door, tempted to grab a tablecloth and fan the delectable smells from the kitchen toward the garage. The door was open. Father's work light was still on.

"Father?" Meryl walked to the garage. After his return from New Oregon, Father had gone straight to his office, canceling his appointments and refusing to see anyone. Now he sat on his tall stool, forehead resting on his folded hands, deep in thought. This was how she'd found him on Grandma's birthday every year after her death, but that terrible anniversary was months away.

Her pumps clocked on the sealed concrete as she approached. Photographs in plain wooden frames rested on the low shelf in front of him. In one pair of frames her much younger father held a sleeping infant, chubby hands closed on the fabric of his shirt. In the adjacent frame a girl glared out of the past, gold valedictorian's sash vivid against the deep blue of her graduation robe. The girl's eyes were full of anger, her smirk full of triumph. She held her diploma the way a butcher might hold a chicken's neck before he snapped it. The girl had left for Bernardelli the next day.

In the other pair of frames the angry girl in blue had become an elated young woman in white, and all the veils were gone. The adjacent frame was empty, expectant.

Meryl reached for her father. His back and elbow were moist with perspiration.

"Daddy?"

Father lifted his head and blinked.

"I'm sorry, honey," he said, patting the hand she'd laid on his elbow. "Did you say dinner's ready?"

"I should be sorry for disturbing you. I can fill a plate and bring it out here, if you like."

"No, that's all right. We're all here tonight, we should eat together. You, me, your mother, and that husband of yours, whatshisname…"

Meryl smacked his arm. "Don't you think that joke's getting a little old?"

"Who's joking?"

"Daddy…"

"All right, I'll stop."

Meryl curled her hands around his elbow, tugging him to the back door.

"Want to talk about it?" she said. Father slipped his other hand over hers.

"I have a decision to make," he said, "one I was hoping to put off a while longer."

"Can I help?"

"You already have."

When they were inside Father took his place at the head of the dining room table. When the meal was ready Mother sat on his right, Meryl on his left. Ericks—Vash—took his usual place at the foot. His smile—that goofy, idiotic, knee-weakening, heartmelting smile of his—smashed through Meryl's bulwark of irritation and left her defenseless, prepared to forgive almost anything.

During dinner the talk consisted of concern for the people of New Oregon—now living under martial law, the upcoming fundraiser for the orphanage, and the new, and much higher, price of natural water. To Meryl's surprise Ericks and his father-in-law had found a common interest and discussed dodgeball scores like seasoned fans.

After dinner, Meryl left Vash to help Mother with the dishes and followed Father outside. Dusk was fading, and stars sparkled hard and clear in a moonless sky. Heat seemed to rise from the whole world, as if it were a rough clay jar fresh out of some cosmic kiln, but the night air was cool and absorbed the warmth of earth and blood alike. Meryl took pleasure in the contrast, letting the evening breeze cool her forehead while enjoying the feel of the dying day's breath on her legs.

In the garage Meryl did little more than watch her father work at his drawing table, and it was good to stand close to him, lean on his shoulder, ask questions and offer suggestions. And more than once did Father put down his pencil, wrap his arm around her waist and draw her near, speaking to her as if she were a full partner in the company, privy to its most guarded secrets.

And later, after the goodbyes and good-nights had been said, after the leftovers had been left in the refrigerator, after her grandmother's bedroom light had been extinguished and her promise to make up for her chilly farewell had been fulfilled, Meryl pushed her wet bangs from her forehead and caressed her husband's broad, muscular and mutilated back.

Asleep. She'd worn him out, poor man.

Be fair, she told herself. The journey from December to Inepril was no cakewalk even under the best of circumstances, and Vash had often made the round trip within a weekend. Home at last, he'd offered his apologies, accepted her forgiveness, and after love he'd gone right to sleep. If anyone was entitled to some extra rest, it was Vash.

Meryl turned on her side, reached behind her and patted his rump. Vash often went to bed first when she brought work home, and if he were still on the edge of consciousness he'd turn to face toward her, cup her body against his, and enfold her in his arms. She never failed to fall asleep in that position, although it normally took a couple of tries. Either way, she didn't mind.

Vash didn't move. Disappointed, she curled the sheet around her shoulders. His gift helped. Sweet man, he'd thought of her even when he was exhausted.

Meryl plucked the delicate flower from its thin vase on her nightstand. The scent of the purple blossom was strong, like perfume.

---

Author's Afterword

Next: Milly. Remember her? See you soon!


	14. A Day on the Farm

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Thirteen – A Day on the Farm

Author's Foreword

Beta-reader: Dee-chan. All remaining errors of style and substance are the exclusive property of the author.

---

Not for the first time, Milly awoke to the touch of varnished wood. Mr. Fletcher must've irrigated the soybeans in the southwest quarter overnight, and the moisture-laden winds had found their way inside, turning the otherwise glass hard floor into flypaper that pulled on her bare skin when she tried to move.

Best to be done with it all at once. With a courageous shove, she forced her naked body up from its sticky trap. She wobbled on her feet, grateful for the tears that moistened her gummed eyelids, but her gratitude was forgotten when she moved toward the bedroom door and barked her shin on something hard.

Milly said a dirty word, stepped over the offending object and fumbled her way to the bathroom, two doors down on the right. Or was it the first door on the left? Silly. Nothing on the left but the stone rail that divided the hallway from the stairwell. She'd have a nice long fall if she tried to go that way.

The lingering primrose scent of Gwen's favorite soap reassured her. Her middle big sister Gwendolyn had shared this bathroom with their eldest sister Beatrice. Any port in a sandstorm, Milly thought, and let her hand crawl over the wall like a blind spider until she felt porcelain under her fingertips. She wrenched open the taps. Under the triple assault of steam, water, and fingers the crust on her eyes dissolved, and Milly blinked at the bright morning, glad to be free of the dark at last. She wiped fog from the mirror and frowned at the face she saw.

She turned her frown upside down. This was no time to fret. Her best friend in the whole world was coming to see her today.

After a long shower that had her half-listening for Gwen's impatient pounding on the bathroom door, Milly dried herself, applied a bandage to her injured leg, wrapped a towel around her body and padded to her room, intent on picking an appropriate outfit. The suit she'd worn to her first Bernardelli interview might still fit, but she'd have to wear opaque stockings to cover her shin, which wouldn't coordinate well with the—

Milly stopped. On her bed lay a complete outfit—and a little old fashioned, at that. No one in December wore opal tie slips anymore, and the long skirt and petticoat were better for square dancing than for company, but they would do. The clunky ankle-high boots, however, would have to go.

The wind fanned the curtains in front of the tall window at the foot of Milly's bed. Even at this early hour, the air carried a hint of midday heat, and another hot breath left the edge of her bath towel dry to the touch. She let it fall. The temptation to give scandal and stand naked on the alcove vanished when the shriek of Grandpa Thompson's table saw ripped through the morning silence. Mr. Fletcher was in the workshop.

What a hard worker he is. Milly dressed, and wondered when she'd opened the window.

In the kitchen, Milly snatched an apron from its peg. Breakfast, of course, was the first order of business, but her guests might wish to enjoy a light lunch, and she hadn't cooked for anyone besides herself in ages. She opened a cabinet and examined the cookware. Maybe Mr. Fletcher would care to join—

As she reached for the frying pan, Milly caught a scent that made her mouth water. At the end of the dining table, a place had been set for her. Condensation rolled down a glass full of geo-Plant orange juice, perfectly centered in a bowl of crushed ice. A covered dish dominated the placemat, and when Milly lifted the silver dome the hunger-inducing scent of ham steak and scrambled eggs billowed around her face. On a smaller plate, three slices of wheat toast awaited neatly juxtaposed pats of fresh butter.

Milly sat down, tucked a cotton napkin into the collar of her blouse and spread another across her lap. She cut a piece of ham and forked it into her mouth. Delicious. Mrs. Turnipseed sure knew how to cook.

After breakfast, Milly carried her dishes to the sink, only to be met by the slender figure of and benign smile of Mrs. Turnipseed, who insisted on washing the dishes herself.

"Can't have you wilting those fine starched cuffs, Miss Millicent," she said. "Mrs. Ramanujan would never let me hear the end of it."

In the living room Milly sat on the sofa, slipped a finger between her neck and the stiff collar of her blouse. Even a corpseweed would wilt in this heat, and at the moment the idea flitted through her mind, air began to rush down from the activated ceiling fans. Milly lifted her face to the flowing air. She'd had her whole childhood to become accustomed to the hot and pungent smell of the rubber drive belts, but today the stench left her tongue and throat dry as the bones in a thomas graveyard.

Milly rose to go to the refrigerator. Maybe Mom was feeling generous and let Mrs. Turnipseed buy some of that cream soda she liked—

Mrs. Turnipseed met her at the kitchen doorway. She held a glass of iced barley tea in one hand and a sandstone coaster in the other. The moisture on her curly black bangs betrayed her hard work, and the morning was not yet old.

Darn. No cream soda today. Milly, grateful nevertheless, accepted the offered refreshment. She drained half the glass in a gulp, and when she was done Mrs. Turnipseed was waiting with a pitcher. She refilled Milly's glass.

"Thank you, ma'am," Milly said. The cook Mom had insisted on hiring smiled, curtsied, and went back to her kitchen duties.

Milly returned to the living room and the sofa. Meryl would be here soon, and that would make it all better. She hadn't seen her old friend since last Harvest Festival, when Meryl and her parents had come to the house for dinner. Afterward, she and Meryl snuck a bottle of wine up to her bedroom, and soon they were talking and laughing as if their first night on the town together had never ended.

Milly scowled at the sunlit mantel over the propane fireplace. She stood and examined the polished granite. Ah-hah! There it was, a mote of dust that thought it could hide from her.

Full of purpose, Milly strode into the hallway to her parents' room. Her skirt slapped her wounded leg but she ignored the pain, intent on banishing that dust speck interloper before it invited friends. In the utility closet she found a feather duster, and was halfway back to the living room when a voice broke her stride.

"Miss Millicent, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

Milly turned to face Mrs. Ramanujan, the housekeeper. A striking contrast to Mrs. Turnipseed's quiet, lissome grace, Mrs. Ramanujan was a noisy, pudgy ball of pure energy who never seemed to stop moving, even when standing still.

"Um, I was just going to dust the mantel, ma'am," Milly said.

"You'll do no such thing," Mrs. Ramanujan said, and snatched the duster away. "Your dear mother would have my hide if she found out. Now off with you, young mistress, and don't you dare besmirch your fine clothes."

"Yes, ma'am." Milly needed some fresh air, and went out to the front porch and sat in the long swing. She flexed her toes, lifted them off the whitewashed boards. The chains from which the swing hung creaked as she swung forward, back, forward, back. The noise was bearable but she considered having Mr. Fletcher oil the links, maybe take a break and have a glass of iced tea with her. He didn't talk much, he was so busy, but she liked the way he smiled at her after a day's work, liked the way he said her name, even if he still called her "Miss Thompson", but—no. There was no sense in ordering Mr. Fletcher around just for a chance at friendly conversation.

Milly folded her hands in her lap, looked north into the wastes beyond the property access road, and waited. The wind chime sang, and as the crystal notes faded she heard what sounded like the purr of an enormous cat. The purring grew louder, followed by the subsonic rumble of an even larger, and hungrier, feline.

Mom's sunflower garden obscured her view of the Old North Road, but it couldn't hide the white cloud of dust that rose from it when vehicles passed. The first cat emerged from the cloud in the form of a silver gray convertible that turned up the access road and into the driveway. The second, a ten-wheel truck pulling a tarp-covered trailer, pulled to the roadside in front of the drive.

The convertible's driver untied her headscarf, swept her hand through her blue-black hair. She got out of the car and brushed her trim dress suit with her hands. She removed her sunglasses, ran up the porch steps and into Milly's open arms.

"You look terrific, Milly," Meryl said.

"So do you," Milly said. Meryl twisted out of her arms and pointed at the truck. Two men leaned against the driver's side door.

"We should get started right away," Meryl said. "I have to be back at the office by three."

---

"This model's just a test bed," Meryl said. She tapped tea from her spoon. "The important thing at this stage is to establish a speed and height for the thresher blades that maximizes efficiency while minimizing damage to the harvested crop." Meryl stopped to take a long sip from her cup. "Once our engineers know that, they'll know the correct gearing ratios and choose the best engine to drive it…"

Milly nodded, doing her best to appear attentive. The dining room was as hot as the living room, and listening to her old boss was like attending a stuffy lecture by a stuffy teacher. That's how it had been almost from the beginning of their Bernardelli careers. Meryl's job to lecture, hers to listen.

Probably my fault, Milly thought. She never did have the heart to tell Meryl she'd memorized the employee manual her first day on the job, just as she couldn't bear to tell Meryl she was seeing the entire current series of the harvester blueprints in her mind as if they were laid out before her on a drafting table, right down to the initials "MCS" signed on the bottom right hand corners.

"The ultimate aim," Meryl was saying, "is to decrease harvesting time to allow more frequent growing seasons. If we can design a saleable production model, we estimate agricultural production will increase by fifty to seventy-five percent over the next five years…"

Milly nodded again, on the verge of losing her struggle with boredom. Dad had explained all this to her before he and Mom left for their long vacation. Her parents had returned last week in a heavy truck Dad had purchased in September. Within an hour he and Mom had moved their belongings from their bedroom on the first floor, and an hour after that they were gone again, anxious to get back to their new spread, whatever that meant.

A rhythmic noise, wet and metallic, interrupted her thoughts. The _whapwhapwhap_ of the thresher blades grew louder until the beat slowed, then stopped.

"Sounds like the men are back," Meryl said.

---

When the thresher was loaded on the trailer, Milly met Meryl on the front porch. She knelt to offer, and accept, a tight hug and a soft kiss to the cheek, tottering a bit as she stood, overwhelmed by a feeling of déjà vu.

Meryl flicked a finger over her eyes and put on her sunglasses. "Oh, before I forget," she said, and drew a card from her purse. "As of today this project is under my supervision, so have your father contact my office directly from now on."

"Really? Wow." Milly accepted the card. _Meryl C. Stryfe, Asst. VP of Operations, Stryfe Consultants_ it said, with a December phone number underneath. "By the way, you haven't talked much about—you know who. Your husband, I mean. How's he doing?"

"Him? He's fine," Meryl said, smiling. "He's been out of town a lot, but—we all have a lot of work to do, don't we?"

"Yeah, I guess we do. Hey, when are you going to answer my question?"

Meryl's eyebrow twitched. "Ten minutes after I'm dead, Milly. Don't hold your breath."

"That's against the rules!"

"Like hell it is. You talked me into that stupid game, remember?"

Milly held her chin. "Hmm, I seem to remember things differently. It's not my fault you can't hold your liquor."

"It was a nice synthetic chardonnay, and I can too hold it."

"But—"

"Good-_bye_, Milly," Meryl said, turning and giving her a dismissive wave. The engineers were ready, and drew their trailer from the irrigation path onto the main road. Meryl tied on her headscarf, got into her convertible, started it and backed down the driveway. At the end, she gave a final wave, turned onto the Old North Road and vanished behind the sunflowers. When the truck and its burden followed, all was quiet again. No wind stirred the chimes.

Back in her room, Milly found a plain cotton shirt and a pair of blue jeans on her bed. She changed clothes, hung her outfit in the closet beside the evening dress she'd worn that night she and Meryl had gone out together. She stroked the fine silk with one hand, brushed her lips with the other.

At dinner, Milly picked at her food until Mrs. Turnipseed offered to prepare something lighter, a bowl of soup, perhaps. Milly told her she didn't want such a fine meal to go to waste.

"Not to worry, Miss Millicent," Mrs. Turnipseed said, taking her all but full plate. "The hogs will make short work of it."

Milly winced at the frost in Mrs. Turnipseed's voice, and when the soup was ready she attacked it with more enthusiasm than she felt. She made no offer to help with the dishes.

The evening passed without amusement or incident, and after her tenth stifled yawn Milly went up to her room. Her pajamas were laid out for her. She looked out the window, but neither Mr. Fletcher nor his dented wreck of a pickup truck could be seen.

He's from a good family, Mom had said, the youngest son of a prominent thomas rancher. Trustworthy and hardworking, a man of solid reputation. One could hire far worse. Or marry, Mom had said.

Milly removed her clothes. She opened the window, embraced the warm and pregnant wind coming off the fallow field beyond the thomas corral. The curls and currents of the air circled her waist, caressed her breasts, and stroked her belly, flicking the scar tissue of emptiness within. She pursed her lips and, as if sensing her intentions, the wind kissed her back in a blunt, aggressive burst that forced her lips apart and filled her mouth with fine, dry dust.

Milly licked her lips. Out in the wasteland one was never completely free of its taste or smell, even after bathing, and one learned to accept the gritty crunch that often accompanied a bite of salmon sandwich, to appreciate the desert aftertaste of a sip of coffee, to enjoy the silica scent behind a breath of cigarette smoke, to delight in the subtle mortar of sand and sweat on a lover's skin.

Things were bad between Meryl and Vash, and getting worse. For all her authoritarian bluster Meryl wore her emotions the way a lady of the evening wore makeup, revealing her whole heart with this certain look or that certain turn of her mouth, and always shocked to find her true feelings so deeply and clearly discerned. But no one with eyes to see and a heart to feel needed magic to see that Meryl worked long hours, didn't always eat properly and sometimes cried herself to sleep, alone.

It was all _his_ fault. And it might only have been the maimed and bloody eye of the rising Fifth Moon that made Milly see red, or it might've been the anger she'd known after watching him kill two innocent young people in cold blood, only to discover it was a cruel ruse to save their lives. Or maybe it was the wrath that always rose like a sun in her breast at seeing another human being in pain.

Jerk, she thought. Selfish jerk. Selfish cruel bastard. You don't deserve her. You don't deserve anything. I hate you. I hate you and your brother. I wish you were both DEAD—

And as this unspeakable vileness bunched and slid, bunched and slid through her mind like a maggot hungry for necrotic dreams, Milly gasped for breath and opened her eyes to a night-gray world. No Fifth Moon peered over the horizon.

Milly backed away from the balcony and shut the window, rattling the glass in its square frames. With trembling hands she felt her way to her bed, slipped under covers that, compared to the wind, rubbed her skin like dry canvas.

I don't want to marry anyone, she thought. I never did. Not before I met _him_—please. Please, I just want to forget, just let me forget—

_You can't forget me, Milly._

"Yes I can," she whispered.

_You can't forget me, Milly. You can't forget, and you can't forgive._

"Yes I can…I have to…I have to…"

_Who says?_

"You did, Nicholas…you did…" Milly opens her eyes, and the gnawing horror begins again when the apparition at the window raises his hand, and the embers of his mangled cigarette make his death-pale cheek glow red.

_Till death do us part, Milly…remember that…_

"No…"

_Till death_

"No…no…"

_do us_

"_NO!"_

Milly throws the covers aside, swings her legs over the edge of her bed. A nightmare. A bad bad sad nightmare.

Milly pulls the sheet from her bed, wraps it around her. She bounces on her tiptoes down the hall to Beatrice's room, past Patricia who is starting to like boys, past the gate Mommy and Daddy put over the stairs to keep her safe, past Eleanor who works for a blacksmith after school and gets home late, past Gwendolyn who sneaks out after bedtime to see her boyfriend, right down to Beatrice who wants to be a doctor and doesn't mind being woke up in the dead of night by a spoiled bratty needy clumsy baby sister.

"Bea," she says, and reaches out to touch her. "Bea, wake up. I had a bad dream, Bea. I had a bad dream…"

Bea is silent, which would not seem strange to Milly were she awake, given that Beatrice left home eight years ago to study medicine and finally moved out the last of her things after the harvest, but to sleeping Milly it only means that Beatrice is very tired and can't wake up. And though it would seem to Milly awake as if she were climbing naked into the empty frame of Bea's bed, Milly asleep curls like a child within her big big sister's arms, and sleeps to the touch of varnished wood, not for the last time.

---

Author's Afterword

Next: Rain falls on the righteous and unrighteous alike. See you then!


	15. When It Rains

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Fourteen – When It Rains

---

Max Simon could not believe what he was seeing.

The data were correct; he had to believe the weather station staff in the last five of the Seven Cities had enough wit to read an anemometer or a thermometer. He'd trained them himself, after all. That left him with one less explanation for the strange meteorological possibilities emerging from the patterns on the forecast before him.

Max Simon glanced at the clock and his research assistant's empty desk. The girl was late. Again. The forecast had to go on the satellite in fifteen minutes.

Well, he thought, there was nothing to be done about that. He scrawled a telegraph message on a scrap of paper, shoved it out the door to the cavalry corporal standing guard at his office, and gave instructions that the replies were to be brought to him immediately. He slammed the door on the bewildered soldier. So hard to find good help these days.

Max Simon locked and bolted the door behind him. Fortunately, the best assistant he could ask for was still nearby.

At the immense bookcase standing on the far wall of his office the former Polo family forecaster touched a hidden switch, stood back while the bookcase swung outward. He ducked through the low opening in the wall and touched another switch. The bookcase swung back. In the ceiling, a light flickered and held steady. Max plopped into the chair, pulled off the dust cover, and turned on his computer. The monitor glowed to full brightness while he waited for the uplink.

When the uplink was established Max Simon accessed the climatology buffer. He stared at what the screen showed him, blinking his eyes clear of what had to be a glitch, of either silicon or plain old age. His eyesight was getting worse, and years of long hours of staring at weather charts hadn't helped, either. Though the groundlings of this world might close their eyes to reality, as either a matter of escape or even a matter of survival, Max Simon could not turn away from the inescapable conclusion this not-so-Lost Technology impressed upon him.

"A slight chance of precipitation," he said, amused at the absurdity of the words and stunned by their import. Rain over December, Inepril, September…all the remaining Cities. With the possibility of scattered showers all over the world.

The bookcase slid into place behind him. Only five minutes before the weather report and he had to find some way to make the impossible sound credible. Why bother? He'd sound just as foolish whether it rained or not. Okay, just say something, something that sounds vague and technical—

Someone knocked on the door. "Go away," he said. "I'm busy." He grabbed a clean forecast sheet and scrawled his prediction. That idiot disk jockey always complained about his penmanship but he wasn't about to start writing in block letters at his age, besides the report wouldn't sound any more ridiculous if the disk jockey read it through that stupid hat of his—

A second knock sent his hand, and his pen, sliding off the edge of the paper. He crumpled the ruined form as if to crush the interloper's head. He stomped to the office door and yanked it open.

"I said, beat it!" he shouted to the empty air. He looked down. The little man beamed a smile almost as bright as his polished hairless head. "Oh, hello, Sam. What the hell are you doing here?"

Dr. Fujiwara stepped into the office as if he owned it and the building around it. "Introducing you to your new research assistant, of course."

"What? I already have three. Or two, since I appear to be short one this morning."

"This morning? Max, she graduated, remember? Eight months ago."

"What? Oh, that's right." Max Simon scratched his head. "Smart girl, heard she got a job with MBK."

"So it would seem. I'm trying to change that." Dr. Fujiwara stepped aside. A blond girl with pigtails appeared in the doorway. She licked at a drop of perspiration at the corner of her mouth. "Max, I'd like you to meet Jessica, your newest student."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," she said, and bowed.

"Hmm." Max Simon stroked his beard. Yes, of course. _Botticelli, Jessica A._ Outstanding academic record, even considering the high quality of her teachers and the immense resources she'd had at her disposal. "But a bit short on manners and of temper," Sam had said in his letter of recommendation. Good. She would do just fine. He stepped forward, extended his hand.

"Welcome to the Max Simon School, Jessica," he said. "Now, what do you know about xenoclimatology?"

---

"There will be an informal celebration during lunch," Monica was saying, "at which you, of course, will be the guest of honor, followed at one o'clock by a formal welcome from the senior staff in conference room one, at which time they will present progress reports on all outstanding contracts…"

Through the plate glass wall of her office, Meryl Stryfe watched the city of December go about its business. She let her assistant's litany fade into the background, behind the clamor of the one thought clanging through her mind.

Father, what the hell are you thinking?

"At three o'clock you have a meeting with Mr. Thompson," Monica said, "followed by a general address to the division and section leaders at three-thirty. Oh, and I've taken the liberty of preparing a few talking points…"

Meryl changed focus and let Monica's dim reflection in the window overwhelm her view of the city. Monica had dressed well today, suit exactly like her own except for the pleated skirt that was becoming the fashion among the younger set these days. All that remained of the waitress now was the pad and pencil Monica used to take notes. And when had Monica started wearing her hair down?

"Research and Development will give a brief demonstration of—something called a remote televisor, whatever that is, at four-fifteen, and at four-thirty, you have a meeting with the legal department to finalize the transfer of authority. After that, your agenda's clear, Mrs. Stryfe. At least for today."

At least for today, Meryl thought. Her biggest worry this morning had been which earrings went with her best suit. Now she had matching earrings, an agenda, and more responsibility than she'd ever known before. One minute she's idling her convertible through the company parking lot, looking for a place to park and not finding one because some mass insanity had stricken every employee of Father's company and compelled them to park at bizarre angles between and across the lines, leaving Father's parking space the only one open…

The next, she's standing at the glass wall of Father's office—her office. All the folders and documents were gone. Apart from the lamp, the blotter, the telephone, the intercom, and her wedding portrait, the top of his desk was a clean continent of stained wood. She'd never have guessed how beautiful his desk was, Mother must've picked it out for him—

"—anything else?"

"Hmm?" Meryl turned to face her assistant. "What did you say, Miss Allen?"

"I said, will there be anything else?"

"No. No, that'll be all for now, Miss Allen, thank you."

"Yes, ma'am." Monica remained where she was, inclined her head toward the inside window. To Meryl it seemed as if the entire company had gathered beyond, waiting expectantly, with smiles both suppressed and open.

Of course, Meryl thought. She keyed the office-wide intercom.

"All right, you layabouts, back to work!" she said, and through the wild cheering that erupted she barely heard Monica approach, barely felt Monica take her hand and hold it, just as Mrs. Hammersham had done at the entrance to Father's—to her office. Cool, competent, unemotional Mrs. Hammersham's eyes had been brimming with tears, just like Monica's, now.

"Congratulations, Meryl," Monica said, and let go.

"Thank you," she said. Monica plucked a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbed at her eyes as she closed the privacy blinds on the inside window. Monica left the office and shut the door behind her. Meryl returned to her place at the wall.

Father, she thought for the hundredth time, what the hell are you thinking?

Her father, by design or by duty, remained unavailable for comment. He was a whirlwind of activity again, young and strong in his enthusiasm. She and Mother (especially Mother! Meryl thought, blushing) were pleased to see Father happy in a way he hadn't been for a long time.

"What's going on?" they would ask at breakfast.

"Something extraordinary," Father would say, and be out the door and into the city before the butter melted on their toast.

Meryl set the memory aside. If Father could be stubborn, so could she.

She put her hands behind her back. From this height and angle the Bernardelli Building was hidden, no more significant to her now than a pebble on a distant sand dune.

I'm still selling insurance, she thought. At Bernardelli she'd learned to appraise land and property, to assign a monetary value to hopes and futures, and to assess the relative risks of holding on to them in a world that, outside the mysterious technology of the Plants, offered no more certainty than day, night and breathable air. Now Stryfe Consultants, its partners, customers, and even its competitors were preparing to offer the people of this dry planet a piece of Earth one could hold on to, a ticket to the future one could redeem.

The Thompson project was at an end, successful under her leadership in every possible way despite her earlier doubts. Mr. Thompson's first order of five harvesters was incentive enough to begin production in quantity, and inquiries were pouring in from smaller farms all over the world. There was talk of collective ownership, suggestions that farmers might pool their resources and use the harvesters together, which was just as well. Stryfe Consultants reaped its profits in patent sales and licensing fees. Reduced demand would be a matter for the manufacturers.

Five iles across the city, at the western edge of the scar, a blue-white spark flashed within the closest Plant bulb. A symptom, Father once told her, of high production demand.

Meryl pressed her hand to the glass. I know just how you feel, she thought.

Meryl straightened her back. From this height, the world beyond the city's edge spread before her like a carpet under the feet of a visiting dignitary. The future was theirs to make, if they only worked hard enough—

And why was it so dark? Meryl leaned close to the glass. The sky was overcast, as if a typhoon were approaching, but no one had seen such a storm this far north in a hundred years.

Something hit the window in front of Meryl's eyes. Startled, she flinched back. Damn birds, the maintenance budget was tight enough without having to scrape droppings off the windows.

Meryl leaned close. Whatever had hit the window was clear and clean. Water? But that was crazy—

Another drop hit the window. Another, and then another, until—like her employees and everyone else in December, had she known—she stopped and stared out her water-spotted window.

My God, Meryl thought. It's—damn, what was the word again? At the well, she remembered it at the well…

The phone rang. Meryl Stryfe, President of Stryfe Consultants, returned to her desk and let it ring twice more. She answered the call and did not look back at the window.

---

"What did you call this again?"

Elizabeth stood in the opening of the May City Plant's access hatch. Water poured from a gray smoke sky.

"Rain," Vash said. "It's called rain."

Elizabeth moved aside and leaned against the cold metal. Rain—this phenomenon, this magic out of a child's bedtime story—battered the thirsty earth. Children played in the street, picking up the miracle in cupped hands and throwing it at one another. Adults emerged from their shops, banks, and restaurants, cast aside their hats and bonnets, and raised their arms and faces heavenward in welcome.

"Looks like no one's interested in being productive today," she said.

"Looks that way," Vash said. The look on his face was that of an indulgent father watching his children play with a new toy. The Plant bulb, reflected in the window of a restaurant across the street, was dark and dormant.

"You're not going to tell me it's sulking, are you?" Elizabeth said.

"The town's asked a lot of him. He needs time to think."

Elizabeth crossed her arms, focused her attention on a piece of quartz in the middle of the muddy road. Nonsense, she thought. Assigning gender to a mere machine served no useful purpose. Elmore had done that, and some of the youngsters on her team had picked up his habit until she'd put a stop to it. Giving human qualities to a mechanism was as useless as naming a stray kitten: it connected you to the poor beast emotionally and destroyed your objectivity. Plant engineers needed objectivity.

Elizabeth rolled her glove from her right hand and caught drops on her bare palm. Was Elmore and his team seeing this magical rain, wherever they were? She hoped she'd get a chance to ask him but like as not, as short on people as the Union was, she'd not see him for the rest of the year. Long months of hard travel and harder effort awaited them both.

Later, when the Plant had ceased its "thinking" and made up its "mind" not to behave, Elizabeth and Vash went back to work. The problems this ridiculous machine posed tested her skills more than any Plant she'd repaired in the last five years. Her fingers flew over the main control panel, struggling to interrupt lines of the Plant's fuzzy logic before they pressed onto their potentially devastating conclusions.

At the auxiliary control panel, Vash's hands were engaged in the same disaster-averting dance, fingers flying over the keypad and touchscreen. When she could spare more than a moment's attention from her own labors she watched the legendary outlaw work, astonished at his ability to anticipate the Plant's behavior well into the Yellow Zone command paths, as far as any engineer, even she, had ever dared, short of an imminent and violent Plant failure.

When the repairs were complete, after Elizabeth had collected her fee from the September city leaders, she found a discreet moment to open her checkbook. She scratched her signature on the line, hesitated, then swirled the agreed-upon amount across the check. She ripped it from her book and extended it to Vash, who plucked the paper from her fingers.

"Getting difficult, isn't it?" Vash said.

Elizabeth shoved her pen and checkbook into her purse. "What is?"

"Pretending I'm your employee."

"Who's pretending, Mr. Stryfe? This was a Union job and I was the engineer called. Business as usual."

"So why did you call me?"

Elizabeth held her hands to her sides, wanting nothing more than to wipe that smug look from his face with a right cross.

"I thought I might need assistance," she said. "And I thought you might be interested in some extra work."

"I have plenty of work in Inepril, Elizabeth. Students who need me. Perhaps you—"

She spun to face him. "In case I haven't made myself clear, Mr. Stryfe, the Union considers you a renegade. It will accept neither you nor your students as certified Plant engineers unless and until it is satisfied your methods, and their training, are consistent with Union standards."

"That's not going to happen, is it?"

"No." She looked at a rivet in the floorplates. "Your methods, such as they are, are far too—unorthodox."

A brown work boot, heavy and worn, obscured her rivet.

"Then you have a decision to make," Vash said. When she looked up a minute or an hour later, he was gone.

At the May City steamer dock, Elizabeth found a quiet corner in a café. Her steamer, the _Big Blue_, was scheduled to depart for September in ten minutes.

I'm not going to read it, she thought, and held her purse closed. She tried to surrender to the satisfied exhaustion that always filled her at the end of a job, but today it would not come. Her body seemed to hum like a power line, as if she were near the source, but Vash had left an hour before—

Stop it, she told herself. She would return to her office, make her formal report to the Union, and that would be that. Her career was moving forward just as she planned, and within ten years she might have a seat on the Union council itself. Then she could implement what she'd learned from Vash from the top down, and—

Elizabeth opened her purse. Behind her ticket, she found the crumpled yellow telegram:

**Dearest Eliza,**

**As always persuasive as you are beautiful but Union Council unmoved by your logic. Integrity of Union body of knowledge paramount. Request for audience with full Council denied.**

**Pleased you have been taking rest but time for rest is over. Request for extended leave denied. Promotion to Caernarfon Territory post nonnegotiable. Official notification to follow.**

**Council concerned by last message re Inepril problem. Hope you are not considering something rash. Remember the Union is your home. Love, Henry. **

**P.S. Congratulations!**

I shouldn't have read it, Elizabeth thought as she left the café. I should've thrown it away, or burned it, or fed it to a thomas. I should never have looked at it again…

Two blocks away from the steamer platform Elizabeth found a telegraph station. She gave the operator the address, paused for breath before she recited the text of her message.

"Dearest Henry, you may consider this my resignation from the Marius Breskin Kantackle Technical Industrial Union, effective immediately. Love, Eliza." She paid the operator, ran back to the ticket booth on the steamer dock. There was still time to catch the last steamer to Inepril.

---

"Mine?" Milly said when she could speak.

"That's right, love," Dad said. "The farm's all yours. Now, your brothers and sisters still have a stake, but only if they return every harvest to help, which probably won't happen very often. Your mum and I will draw a respectable pension, of course, but the biggest share of the land and future income will be yours." Dad grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Between that prime new parcel of land we finagled from the government and the new harvesters, Milly my love, you are going to be a very wealthy young woman."

"Well, don't just sit there, dear," Mom said. "Say something."

Milly dropped the paper on the coffee table. When she looked up, she was smiling. At least her face felt as if it were.

"Dad, Mom, thank you," she said. "I don't think I've ever been happier."

Dad slapped his legs. "I suppose that does it, eh? All we need now is your signature on the deed, right here, beside the X." Milly took the pen her mother offered, signed on the line, feeling, for some reason, as if every drop of ink were her own blood.

"Well, then, that's that," Dad said, and stood. Mom joined him. "I guess we'll be going now, burning daylight and all that, you know."

"You're leaving?" Milly shot to her feet. "But—where are you going? This is your home, you live here."

Dad closed his eyes and sighed. Mom held her arms, looked into her eyes.

"Millicent, we've tried to tell you. Over and over, we've tried to tell you. Your father and I are retiring. This is your house now—"

"No," Milly whispered. "This is your house, I don't care what it says on the paper, this is your house, you can't just move…you can't…"

"Milly," Mom said, and held her. "My darling Millicent, it has to be this way. That's how it's always been. And that's how it will be, one day, when you have children."

"Milly," Dad said, "none of your brothers and sisters loves this farm as much as you do. We honestly thought you'd be pleased to see us go. I was bloody damn glad to see your mum's folks go, believe me—"

"Neville, that will be quite enough," Mom said. "I'm sorry, Milly, that you're having such trouble, but that will pass, and when you have work to do, I promise, you won't give us a second thought. But we'll be close, and when you need us, we'll be closer still. All right?"

After the sound of her parents' runabout faded away, Milly went to the back door. The clothesline was empty. Mr. Fletcher's truck was gone. So was Mrs. Turnipseed's car and Mrs. Ramanujan's motorcycle. Today was Friday, and this was their weekend off.

To the southwest, darkness dominated the horizon. Lightning like little sparks danced on the clouds. Milly breathed in, and the air was clean and clear.

Later, when the suns had set and the clouds had covered the whole sky and the little sparks had grown to thunderbolts, Milly stood on her alcove, naked and asleep, and waited for the rain.

---

Maryanne reviewed the application before her, and stamped it approved. She handed the carbon copy to the two men before her. They exchanged a look, grinned idiotically. 

There was nothing new or unusual in her actions today, but she couldn't shake a sense of sadness. Prospecting and salvage licenses were easy to obtain, and those who took on the work knew the attendant risks. The licenses themselves were more of a courtesy than a source of revenue. In the event the prospector failed to return on the license date, it let the appropriate law enforcement agencies know when to start looking for him…and when to stop.

However, Maryanne put little stock in rumors, as a law enforcement officer she couldn't afford to ignore them. If the men had indeed seen this distant flash of light some of the townspeople spoke of, then it was probably nothing more than a derelict Ship catching the sun at a propitious angle, just as they hoped. She wished the men well as they drove away. One could do worse than scouring the desert for spare parts. Go into law enforcement, for example.

Not that the life and times in this town were boring by any means. No one had been more surprised by that than she had. The new chancellor's efforts to destroy and bring to justice the most notorious of the bandit and slaver gangs had forced those who escaped or survived further south, east, and west. The dregs left behind by the chancellor's dragnet had drifted into her town, broken and bereft of the safety of their gangs, but still crooked enough to cause trouble. Three arrests in two months, not a bad haul for a new marshal of a remote territory. They had been sufficient to justify an increase in her budget and the services of three deputies. Colleagues, and more, who'd stood by her in the aftermath of the May City disaster.

Maryanne lifted a metal cup from its nail in the wall near the door and stepped into the street. The town well looked less like a well now, and more like a giant fire hydrant. The government water trucks had kept coming in empty and leaving full, to the almost embarrassing benefit in wealth and trade to so small a town. Concerns that the aquifer beneath their feet might go dry too soon, that their greed might undo everything and leave a ghost down in its wake, were put to rest with every government check.

Maryanne walked up to the public access tap and filled her cup. She drank deeply. Best water she'd ever tasted. She hung her cup on its nail and leaned in the doorway. She let her hand rest on her gun belt, and waited for the man and his son to come into sight.

They turned the corner onto Main Street. Hand in hand—more like clenched hand on tiny wrist—they weaved through the afternoon crowds. At the next corner, the boy stumbled. He knelt on the ground, weeping, reluctant to rise. His father thrust his hand away and looked at his son as if the boy were a crushed insect stuck to the sole of his boot.

The man grabbed the boy by his shirt and lifted him to his feet. The boy held fists to his eyes. Tears drew streaks down his dusty face. Two blocks later they disappeared around a corner, on their way home.

Maraynne relaxed, lifted her hand from her Marlon special. Kostelecki, the town bully who'd accosted the child on her first day in town, was cooling his heels in the city jail, awaiting trial before the territorial circuit judge on a drunk-and-disorderly. Two weeks ago he and the boy's father had come to blows in an alley. When she arrived on the scene knives had been drawn, and it took her and all three of her deputies to pull them apart. The man had claimed self-defense. Kostelecki, strangely enough, had not challenged his account.

Last night, she'd found the lumbering oaf curled up on the floor of his cell, weeping beyond all consolation. She'd left a deputy overnight, on suicide watch.

The four o'clock bus from May City was ten minutes late. Maryanne paced the sidewalk in front of her jail, listening to the hollow clomp of her boots on the wooden planks. Passers-by greeted her with nods and smiles. Good to see she was popular and needed somewhere, even if it was just a pinprick on a mostly empty map.

Not for long, she thought, as the bus appeared at the edge of town and stopped in front of the town's newest hotel. The vehicle poured a stream of humanity from its open doors, and as the people stretched and sighed relief, she listened and watched. Most of them were here to stay, job hunters and homesteaders for the most part by the look of them.

Except for one man, a Marshal Service courier who saw her and approached at a run. He touched his cap to her, presented an envelope and a clipboard. She signed for the envelope, paused to watch him rush back to the hotel before all the rooms were taken.

Maryanne went inside and sat at her desk. She opened and read the message.

**Dear Maryanne,**

**Report on possible VTS trail received with much interest. Unresolved VTS problem making politicians nervous. Movement in Congress to find final solution. **

**By order of Chief Marshal Longbaugh you are to confirm beyond reasonable doubt death of VTS. Discretion foremost repeat foremost priority. **

**Further resources cannot be diverted to search. You are on your own. Sorry and good luck. T Rexall, Marshal, December City.**

Through her open office door, Maryanne noticed a crowd gathering. She went outside, followed the throng's collective gaze north. Clouds that were not smoke were gathering somewhere between the deep desert and the edge of the world.

---

On Augusta 6th, 133 F. A., at 11:38 PM local time, a thunderstorm formed over a remote point of the equatorial desert, two hundred iles north of the northern boundary of Cornelia Territory.

Max Simon had noted the storm, of course, and its potential severity. However, nothing but typhoons formed in the equatorial region, and typhoons never produced precipitation. There was no one to warn, and no sleep lost.

Lightning ten thousand times hotter than the equator's most savage day graced the night-black clouds with flashes of royal purple and descended to the derelict Ship, which absorbed its violence and left it harmless, impotent. From the beginning, the Ship's designers had considered the rigors of interstellar travel with its vagaries of velocity changes and intermittent asteroids, and considered them well. It would take more than a mere spark to breach the hull of so mighty an undertaking, much more.

Yet it was possible, in retrospect, given long nights of bad coffee and circuit diagrams, to calculate the precise voltage, number and duration of the electrical impulses needed to alter the course of an interstellar spacecraft and send it, wrapped in a shroud of pink-hot plasma, hurtling into the surface of an all but dead planet. The builders had never bothered. Impossible, they'd said to one another, impressed by their foresight and predilection for quadruple, quintuple and sextuple redundancy. Might as well ask a computer to resolve _pi_ to the last digit, or divide by zero. Impossible. Hadn't they considered everything?

The skies over the Ship opened, and the rain came down. Drops hissed on the scalding sand and evaporated, but even the heat of this wasteland oven was not eternal. The sand cooled; water began to linger a while on damp earth. Here and there, in the pores of blasted rock, in the leeward side of larger stones, in the spaces between the sand grains themselves, the rain pooled and puddled. It streamed down the ruined craft and, through the hull's myriad hairline fractures and ruptures, found its way inside.

The rain came, and down, down flowed the sacred stuff of life, past the bridge and crew quarters, past the food and equipment storage compartments, past torn bulkheads and doors, down into the true cargo, the sarcophagi. Over, around and through the mummified dead the water dripped, gathered, and overflowed again.

Above, the exhausted storm lay down on the hot wind and evaporated. Below, in the Ship's engineering spaces, Plants dry and curled and brown as dead geraniums hung where they died. All except one. The rainwater dribbled onto the glass chamber of the last intact Bulb.

Humans would have called it torture, this constant _drip drip drip_ of water. Indeed, at one time it was used as such; a benign alternative to searing the flesh and breaking the bone, for the skilled inquisitor knows that only the will to resist must be broken. If that could be done without pain, so much the better. Sadism tempered by patience: the best of all possible worlds for everyone…except for the Plant within the Bulb, who would've given anything to know the touch of water again, benign or malignant. If he could know anything. Which he couldn't.

A universe away, on the Plant's control panel, the oneirostat switch remained set to standby, and no force in the universe would change that. Except, of course, the force that set it, and that force was far away, satisfied that his extended argument with Elizabeth had achieved its purpose, perplexed by his wife's somber celebration of her career triumph, perplexed more still by the pleasant yet perfunctory love they made in its aftermath. Meryl just has a lot on her mind, he told himself, and left his wife sound asleep on her side of the bed. He had a lot on his mind, too.

Quite unlike his brother in the Bulb, who had nothing on his mind whatsoever. His body was nothing more than what his designers intended it to be: a battery that never goes dead. Thus, in maintaining power to the Bulb's external control systems just as he was designed to do, he participated in his own captivity. The irony would've driven him to incandescent fury, if he could feel anything. Which he couldn't.

The power of sensory deprivation had been known for centuries. Mystics sought visions in the solitude of caves, in the self-denial of food and water and sleep. Artists, writers and saints produced work of sublime energy under conditions of brutal confinement. Scientists sought understanding of the mind's power while floating in lightless, soundless tanks of warm brine, but nothing came of it but a few confusing and immediately discredited papers in obscure journals, until the geneticists and neuroengineers of a far more enlightened time saw a way to unlock the power inherent within the visions. A way to control their content. To make them real.

Laws were passed. Laboratories were opened. Objections were made and suppressed. Patents were filed. Genotype became phenotype. And for the benefit of all humankind, both became property once more. "Better Living Through High Technology", screamed the banners and the apologists. The perfect society. No more ignorance, save of one guarded secret. No more want, save of clarity of conscience.

Sometimes, a Plant thought to hate his condition, to escape his captivity. When that happened, his thoughts were stripped from his mind with a flick of a switch until he could be "repaired". And when that failed…well, the Brave New World had no room for horror stories, now did it?

No room for horror stories…save one.

---

In their pride and vanity, the Ship builders had believed they'd thought of everything. Yet in all their calculations the builders had failed to account for one terrible variable: the irresistible force of a single spark of malice, struck within a mind bent on retribution.

The rain had long since passed, and the streams of water flowing over the dead began to dwindle. To the one living thing left within the derelict Ship it was enough, and it was delicious.

There would be a time later to attend to more practical matters, such as food, clothing and shelter. All these things existed in abundance down here amongst the dead. Finding them would pose no difficulty. For now, it was enough to take pleasure in blood and bone; thoughts directed from within, not annihilated from without.

An iron fist of obligation closed on the Plant's heart yet he was pleased to accept it, for there were debts to be paid, rights to be wronged—and butterflies to be saved. This time, he would succeed.

The Plant known as Knives Millions lifted his head, and laughed.

---

Author's Afterword

Sorry again for the late update…life, work, marriage, bills—the usual stuff. However, if someone were to pay me to write fanfiction…

No dice, huh? Can't say I'm surprised, or even disappointed. The second half of this long tale begins next chapter: Knives is on the loose, Meryl and Vash are struggling with work and marriage, Elizabeth isn't helping, Maryanne is out and about, asking some pointed questions about our favorite Typhoon, and Milly is about to experience—well, I'll save that for later. See you then!


	16. Loves Me, Loves Me Not

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Fifteen – Loves Me, Loves Me Not

--

"Isn't getting any _what_?"

At the sound of Meryl's voice, Apprentice Friedling's hand closed on his paper cup. Water spurted from his fist and drenched his sleeve. The other boy at the water cooler, Apprentice Thorogood, showed more sense and only set his cup on the water tank. The boys turned. The cooler gurgled in time with their bobbing Adam's apples.

Meryl put her hands on her hips. Like most of the boys Stryfe Consultants had taken on this year, Friedling and Thorogood towered over her, and her neck twinged as she glared at them. To her left the fire exit from which she'd emerged offered one possible escape route; the men's' room to her right, another. The boys' eyes flicked from one to the other, then back to her. They were trapped. Satisfied, she watched the knowledge take hold in their minds.

"G-good afternoon, Mrs. Stryfe," said Friedling.

"Good afternoon," Meryl said. "I apologize for eavesdropping, gentlemen, but I couldn't help overhearing you and Mr. Thorogood discussing—well, I believe you were saying just now, Mr. Friedling, that—and I quote—the boss lady isn't getting any. Getting any what?"

The apprentices looked at each other. Perspiration dripped from Friedling's earlobe. Thorogood's hair was matted to his forehead.

"Oh, that," he said.

"Yes," Meryl said. "That. Perhaps you would care to elaborate, Mr. Friedling." She watched the boy wilt, though like everyone else in the office he looked half-wilted already. "After you fix your tie, that is."

"Well, ma'am," Friedling said, fumbling at his loose necktie with shaking hands, "I suppose I could elaborate, but as it turns out I'm five minutes overdue back to my desk, and I really don't have time to—"

"That is most certainly true," Meryl said, "and I'm sure Miss Tanaka will have a few choice words for you on the subject. In the meantime…" She glanced at the other boy, who seemed to be trying to move his lips. "You have something to add, Mr. Thorogood? Speak up."

"Um," Thorogood said, and then his face brightened. "Sleep! That's it. He just meant that you weren't getting enough sleep, ma'am."

"T-that's right, ma'am, that's all I m-meant…"

"I see. That's what I thought you meant," Meryl said. "Your concern for my well being is noted and appreciated, gentlemen, and I am pleased to see that you are trying to stay hydrated. Now, if your thirst for both water and idle talk has been adequately quenched you will both return to your desks, and keep your speculation on my sleeping habits, however well intentioned, to yourselves." The boys slipped past her, backs against the wall, white-collar bandits dodging managerial gunfire. They turned and quickened their pace down the hallway until they vanished around a corner.

Meryl leaned against the wall and rubbed the distended vein in her forehead until it relaxed. Their section chief would give them a stern talking to and with luck, that would be the end of it. She glanced behind her, into the clerical pool. Typewriters that had fallen silent went back into action, and heat-flushed faces that had turned up out of curiosity found more fascinating sights on the desks before them.

Shoulders hunched and sweat-stained backs bent as Meryl passed through the accounting department and the drafting room. The building's evaporative cooling system had failed an hour ago, and everywhere she went her employees did what they could to keep cool. The building superintendent had assured her the problem would be fixed by now. If this kept up she'd have to send everyone home, and she couldn't afford that.

Back in her office, Meryl peeled off her suit jacket. As much as she would've liked the privacy Meryl kept the blinds on her inner office window open. At Bernardelli the senior management staff had made invisibility a high art. She stood at her office wall, facing west, looking into downtown December. There was no hiding from anyone here. On a day this hot and clear the subtle tint in the glass leeched the blue from the sky, leaving only an empty gray blackboard on which a child might scribble clouds of chalk. Her husband was out of town, out there somewhere. Exactly where, she never bothered to ask anymore.

Meryl went to her desk and opened the intercom. "Miss Allen? Could you call the building superintendent again, give him my compliments and ask him what the hell is taking so damned long?"

"Right away, ma'am," Monica said.

"Thank you," Meryl said, and grabbed a folder from her in-box—now an in-pile, at this time of day. The folder contained a status report on the pension fund. Given the current unusual weather—and it still felt odd to imagine rain at all, no matter how infrequent—the accounting department had concluded the fund was too deeply invested in water futures. The report offered a divestment schedule the bean counters believed wouldn't trigger a panic sell-off in the market.

Meryl's lunch settled like lead in her abdomen as she worked. Had she known the building would be so hot she'd have stopped after her first trip to the buffet. Out in the wastes, during her Bernardelli days, she'd always known her limits.

When that document was read and signed off—a proposal to begin leasing office space on a fourth floor, and they were surely going to need it—Meryl leaned back in her seat, let the thomas leather cool her shoulders. My fault, she decided. My fault for taking my old shortcut back from lunch, up the service elevator to the tenth floor fire exit. A manager ought not to hear, or overhear, what her employees are saying about her. Rumors were bad for morale—hers, and theirs.

"Mrs. Stryfe?"

Meryl switched the intercom. "Yes, Miss Allen?"

"Mr. Granby informs me that the coolers will be working shortly, and…"

"Yes, Monica, what is it?"

"And that he might get them fixed more quickly if he weren't interrupted every fifteen minutes."

Meryl willed her hands and jaw to unclench. "Very well, Miss Allen, please call him back and convey my thanks and my apologies." Lazy old fart, she thought.

Monica, face shining with perspiration, appeared at the office door. Even in this heat Monica insisted on wearing her suit jacket.

"Time for your one-thirty, ma'am," Monica said. Meryl got up and followed her to Research and Development. Two weeks ago the lab rats had presented a preliminary budget on their new toy, the remote televisor, and Meryl sat through a long-winded spiel on how it would "revolutionize communication and advertising". Great, she thought. Just what the world needed, another way to waste time. She signed her approval and bid them Godspeed, resolved never to buy one of the damnable contraptions herself.

After that came a most uncomfortable disciplinary meeting. Two legal department apprentices had been caught _in flagrante delicto_ in an otherwise unused storage closet. The section chief had bucked the matter through the division level and beyond, until Meryl had been forced to get involved. A "leadership challenge", Father would've called it. More like an endurance challenge. Who could even think of doing such a thing in this killing heat?

My husband would, Meryl thought. If he were ever home.

"What you do on your own time is your business," Meryl told the nervous, disheveled and perspiring couple, two apprentices with too much time on their hands. "What you do on company time on company property is mine. If you can't control yourselves, you'll have to find another job. Understand?" As punishment she sent the kids home for the day without pay, though she doubted they would see such justice as burdensome. After they left she went to the executive restroom to splash water on her face, reflecting that she could've chosen her words better.

_What you do on company time on company property…_ Good Lord. Now Friedling and Thorogood would add "Boss lady is a pervert" to their list of water cooler conversation topics.

Back at her office, Meryl sank into her chair. She leaned back. Cool air from the ceiling vent poured over her. Moans and sighs of relief sounded throughout the office, as if the whole company were two apprentices making love in a storage closet.

"Ahh," Meryl said, adding her own vocal expression of pleasure. Indispensable, that Mr. Granby. Couldn't live without him. Beyond the west window the flat gray sky showed no sign of change. Too bad. Some rain would be nice right now.

Two hours after close of business, Meryl looked up from her paperwork. The folder pile in her inbox had doubled in size since lunch. All of it would have to come home with her and they'd never all fit into her briefcase. Meryl rose to find a file box, only to find the doorway blocked by her assistant.

"Here you are, ma'am," Monica said, and held out an empty file box.

Meryl accepted it. "Miss Allen, what on earth are you doing here? It's after seven."

"I'm your assistant, right? So I'm assisting you." Monica smiled, though her bleary eyes betrayed her own fatigue.

"Yeah, well I'm your boss, and I'm telling you to go home, right this minute." Meryl carried the box to her desk and began tossing folders into it. Monica made no move to leave. "Miss Allen, didn't you hear what I said?"

"Yes, ma'am. And I will, right after you do the same."

Meryl leaned on the box's edges. "I seem to remember discussing this with you two weeks after you were hired."

"The Sucking Up Will Get You Fired Lecture. I remember. And with all due respect, Meryl, I don't believe this fits the definition."

Meryl let her shoulders sag. Monica _is_ my assistant, after all…

Out in the parking lot Meryl watched Monica lift the box and slide it into the trunk of her convertible. Monica closed the trunk and brushed her hands together. "Will there be anything else, Mrs. Stryfe?"

Meryl studied Monica. Trim and proper, every ich the professional. Gone was the waitress/apprentice and her puppy dog eagerness to please; in its place was a calm resolve to do what was required of her to the best of her ability, and just enough initiative to act on her own when Meryl neglected or forgot something. Someday soon Monica would make a fine section chief and take her first step up the company ladder.

"Miss Allen," Meryl said, "I know it's late, but…before you leave, would it be too much trouble to take a few extra minutes to prepare my notes for the third quarter review meeting tomorrow? Have the security guard walk you to your car when you're done."

Monica's smile was glorious in the fading daylight. She bowed deeply, as if before an audience to which she'd given her best performance and from which she'd never heard even a smattering of applause until now.

"Good night, Mrs. Stryfe," she said, and walked back to the building.

At home, Meryl parked the car in the barn and carried the file box into the house. She peeled off her overcoat, tossed her suit jacket over the back of Grandpa's old overstuffed chair. She left her string tie on the hallstand with her car keys, and kicked off her shoes. After a day like today, the feel of her house slippers on her feet was as relaxing as a massage. Almost as relaxing. Vash gave the most delightful foot rubs.

Meryl started a pot of coffee—tea just wasn't strong enough anymore—grabbed a handful of folders and slammed them onto the kitchen table.

Yesterday had begun pleasantly enough. Vash was home from yet another three-week sojourn into parts unknown. Meryl had come home late, and was pleased to discover Vash had spent the day tending to odd jobs and little projects he'd assigned himself and not splayed out on the couch, asleep. She'd left him to it, busy with her own piles of documents and reports.

Then the telegram from Inepril had come, just as they'd started dinner. He had to leave right away, catch the overnight express steamer to be in Inepril by morning. Meryl had offered to drive him to the steamer dock but he'd insisted on taking a cab. A finality in his insistence had left her afraid without knowing why, and with the fear had come anger and heated words.

"I haven't seen you this happy to leave me behind since we first met," Meryl had said. Her words had stopped him in the doorway. Then he'd muttered something under his breath, and was in the cab and away before she could move or speak.

"I don't bring _my_ work home," Meryl said, mocking her husband, as if he were one to talk. Here she was, working her fingers to the bone every night to keep them in groceries and gasoline, and he was complaining about the very work that provided them. True, her salary was substantial, and combined with his pay they made more than enough money to make a living, but didn't he understand this could all end someday? That one day she might not be able to work, that she could be hit by a car and get a broken leg, that she could get sick like Grandma did and go bankrupt paying for doctors who told her there was nothing they could do and could only watch while she withered away into nothing…

Then, when Meryl was finished for the night and climbed into bed beside him, he made no move to give or receive intimacy. All he did was sleep his damn fool head off. Go ahead, she thought. Sleep. See if I care. I wasn't in the mood ANYWAY—

When Meryl opened her eyes, the contents of the folder were fluttering down, settling on the kitchen table in flat drifts.

_Boss lady was losing it._ Meryl could almost hear the rumor now.

Meryl looked up at the clock. Ten after twelve. Sleep beckoned to her through the static in her mind. Tomorrow was Saturday and the papers would wait. She stepped around the scattered documents and out of the kitchen.

After changing into her nightshirt and brushing her teeth, Meryl tiptoed to the bed and sat down. Bathed in the soft glow of her lamp was another pink and purple flower.

Meryl plucked the delicate plant from her grandmother's white glass vase and held it under her nose. Lovely, and fragrant. Strange, Meryl thought, how evocative scent could be. This one blossom filled the whole bedroom with a scent that made Meryl think not of her honeymoon, but of her days at the Academy.

For a whole year Meryl had worked up the courage to speak to him, the handsome and graceful dodgeball team captain she'd absolutely, positively fallen in love with that first night she'd seen him play. A year of watching him pass her in the hall between algebra and Earth history, watching her classmates, overperfumed rich girls who gave her no more thought than they gave a seam in the tiling on the hallway floor, put themselves between her and the object of her affection. One in particular, a titian-haired, pale-skinned upperclassman whose beauty outshone Meryl's by at least an order of magnitude though it pained her to admit it, and who sidled up to the boy Meryl had adored for a year and took his arm as if

_Come along, Spot_

Meryl didn't exist and never had. And he liked it! How he could prefer that melon-breasted bimbo to her was beyond comprehension and it didn't matter that her work and her studies left no time for dating, she would've endured Father's most severe scolding for a chance at more than a kind word or a thoughtful remark from him.

What a fool she'd been. She would have died for him

_They did say he was the worst kind of womanizer_

(and almost had).

_Now's not the time to remind me of that_

It wasn't the first time Vash had chosen duty over the pleasure of her company. He had been that way from the beginning. Meryl had accepted it from the first time Vash stretched a weekend away from home into a week, had determined to endure his absence the first time a week away had become two, had found refuge from her loneliness in work all last month, cooking alone, cleaning alone, eating alone, sleeping alone and it was getting easier, over time. Sacrifices had to be made, and it didn't matter that the terrors of her early days back home had returned to haunt her in the night to steal her sleep, to remind her how different or brief her life might've been if he'd left her and Milly to fend for themselves, to force her to remember that her husband had been—and possibly still was—a wanted man, and that he might never come back…

_Boss lady sounds like she isn't getting any._ Though it had been in Meryl's power to cripple Friedling's career with a formal reprimand she hadn't found the heart to do it. Why spank a child for speaking what the adult knows is true, no matter how crude his words?

Meryl held the flower, a little pink and purple parasol, before her eyes. One by one, she plucked the brilliant petals and let the mutilated stem fall to the floor between her feet.

---

Author's Afterword

Sorry I'm late again, friends and neighbors, but that's the kind of thing that happens when you switch careers to take a job you really like and pays a heck of a lot more money than anything you've ever done before. Fanfiction kinda gets left by the wayside, y'know?

Anyway, as I've said in the update on my author's profile, the story is coming right along (no, really!). Keep me honest, folks!

Next: Chapter Sixteen - A chapter about a former insurance girl who's looking for a date. See you then!


	17. Lady of the House

Children of the Pebble

By "Clinesterton Beademung", with all of love.

Disclaimer: "Trigun" © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

Comments and criticism welcome.

Chapter Sixteen – Lady of the House

---

"Well, Milly," Eleanor said, "looks like you're in charge now."

Standing on the front porch of her house, Milly watched the whipgrass in the north fields wave in the wind.

"Big responsibility, baby sister. You sure you're up to it?"

A green pickup truck was the only vehicle in the driveway. Eleanor's belongings filled the bed, covered by a canvas tarp. E. THOMPSON—CERTIFIED MASTER BLACKSMITH—THOMAS TACK OUR SPECIALTY! was stenciled on each door.

"If you're not, I could always cancel the opening of the new shop and move back in with Petunia."

"What? No!" Milly gaped at her. "I mean, that is, you're always welcome and I wouldn't mind a visit now and then…"

Eleanor raised her hands. "Just kidding, sis, just kidding. I was just wondering if you were listening to me."

"I'm sorry, Ellie. I guess I just don't know what to say at times like this." Eleanor, her little big sister, was shorter than she was by three iches, prettier, and about five times stronger than she'd ever been. The blacksmith's muscles that sheathed Eleanor's body like armor and bulged against her plain white blouse and blue jeans had never touched her princess-fair face.

Eleanor glanced at her wristwatch. "What's keeping that girl?"

Milly listened at the front door. Footsteps could be heard down the hall to the master bedroom, but they were too heavy to be anyone's but Mrs. Ramanujan's. The clatter and clink of Mrs. Turnipseed cleaning up after breakfast came from the kitchen. Beyond that, there was only the constant hum and rumble of the ceiling fans.

"You and Petunia are more than welcome to stay for lunch," Milly said. "You might be here for a while."

"Sorry, but we can't. I'll drag that girl out by her hair if I have to." Eleanor grinned, a brilliant and flawless stage actress smile. "You don't have to hide how glad you are to see us go, you know."

"You know that's not true."

Eleanor laughed. "Baby sister, I could always read you like a newspaper. We're cramping your style and in imminent danger of overstaying our welcome." Eleanor crossed her arms, inclined her head at the doorway. "He is handsome, isn't he?"

Milly turned her back to Eleanor. "I don't know who or what you're talking about." A hard, muscled arm slipped around her shoulders.

"Come on, Milly," Eleanor said, and shook her. "Has he asked you out or made a move on you yet? Are you going to take the first step? I could give him a few pointers before we leave, tell him what foods and books and music you like."

"Ellie, please…"

"Or maybe I could just steal him from you. Polygamy is still legal in some places. So I've heard."

"Steal who from whom?" Petunia, wearing a plain purple dress, stood at the threshold. She dropped her paisley patterned travel bag and pushed her wire frame glasses up on her nose. "Thinking of two-timing me already, Ellie?" She held up her left hand. The solitaire diamond sparkled like fireworks. "I could get some good money for this rock in December, I'll bet. Don't bother taking me home, I'll call a cab."

"Wait, wait, Pet," Eleanor said, and took Petunia's hand. "You know there's no one in the world for me except you."

Petunia's hard look softened. "That's what you keep telling me, isn't it? You really shouldn't tease my sister-in-law-to-be so much. She's been a gracious host."

Eleanor scratched her head. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry."

"At any rate, we should be going. You have to be in September by tomorrow morning."

"Look who's talking, lady." Eleanor raised her arm, flexed a bicep that would've been impressive on a steamer fireman. "All this driving around is making me soft."

Petunia wrapped her hands around Eleanor's arm. "We'll have to do something about that, won't we?"

"Yeah. I could use the exercise." Eleanor grabbed Petunia's travel bag. "I think we're ready to go. Finally."

Eleanor helped Petunia into the cab of her truck and shut the door. A long moment passed between Milly and her sister, a silence neither dared breach until they could no longer be held back, and she and her strong, gorgeous little big sister were holding each other, spilling tears onto each other's cheeks, promising to be near whenever one needed the other.

When Eleanor and Petunia had gone, Milly went into the house. In charge. She liked the sound of that.

Milly crossed the living room to the stairs. On her way up Milly leaned on the rail to avoid bumping the photographs. Five generations of the Thompson family had captured their favorite images and hung them on the stairwell walls. The stairs were a time machine, and every climb to the top floor was a journey of a hundred years and more.

Milly halted at the first landing. A portrait taken by her eldest brother Oliver at Harvest Festival a year and a half ago, of Meryl and her parents with her and her parents, hung before her. Good food, cheap wine, and a game she and her best friend had not yet finished. Were she and Vash still together? Milly hoped Meryl would call someday soon and fill her in. And if they weren't, if he had hurt her…

Three steps later there was another favorite, her parents' wedding portrait. They had married late; Dad was thirty-seven, Mom thirty-six, but their marriage had survived twenty years and ten children, and they still looked as if they'd stepped out of the courthouse that first day of their life together. At least Dad did. Age would not leave its deeper marks until he was well into his seventies, if her grandparents were any indication. Mom had better keep an eye on him.

On the second floor landing Milly stopped at another photograph, another family portrait, but this one was from two generations back, when Dad was nothing more than a come-hither look in Grandma Abigail's eye. There she was in front, sitting between her youngest big brother Marmaduke and her youngest big sister, Meredith. This was the only image of Great Aunt Meredith on the wall—and the only one Milly knew of. Grandma Abigail never talked about her, and when asked made it clear (sometimes painfully clear, with a sharp slap upside the head) that Grandma never would.

"Miss Millicent?"

Milly blinked. At the bottom of the steps Mrs. Turnipseed was looking up at her. "Yes?"

"I apologize for interrupting, mistress, but I wish to know if the lady of the house will be having lunch in the kitchen today."

"The dining room will be fine, Mrs. Turnipseed. Thank you."

"As you say, mistress," the cook said, and went into the kitchen. Milly gritted her teeth. Two days ago she'd offered to help Mrs. Turnipseed clear the table and, over the cook's objections, proceeded to do so. Mrs. Turnipseed had tried to take a stack of plates out of her arms and her hands had slipped. Eleanor and Petunia had stepped in and offered to clean up the broken dishes but Mrs. Turnipseed would have none of it. Since then Mrs. Turnipseed had made it clear Milly's presence in the kitchen would never be more than tolerable.

Snooty old witch. Milly continued her climb and at the top of the stairs turned right, then a quick left. Mrs. Ramanujan was hard at work in Eleanor's room. At Milly's approach she halted her dust mop.

"Good morning, young mis—I mean, Miss Millicent," she said. "How may I be of service to you?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," Milly said. "But I guess I should know better by now, shouldn't I?"

Mrs. Ramanujan chuckled. "Yes, mistress, you should. This old woman appreciates the offer, though."

"You're not old."

The housekeeper laughed out loud. "The lady of the house is most kind." She returned to her work. "A pity to see Miss Eleanor and her fiancée leave so soon. I'm sure you enjoyed their company. Then again, our nights will be a bit quieter from now on, eh, Miss Millicent?"

Heat rose in Milly's face. Despite Mom and Dad moving away (and Mom was wrong, she'd never quite get used to that) she'd kept her old bedroom at the end of the top floor hallway. She had a notion of how exuberant lovemaking between a man and woman could be (though thinking about it left her sad and empty for some reason), but Ellie and Petunia, in a manner of speaking, had pulled out all the stops the three nights they were here.

Milly tiptoed across the floor to the window, bare of curtains. Three new harvesters roamed the south quarter, driven by the new field foreman and his two hands, gathering in days a harvest that had taken her entire extended family weeks to bring in. She supposed that was a good thing, freeing her brothers, sisters and cousins to live their own lives uninterrupted. Better than blistering one's hands on a scythe sixteen hours a day. Or was it? She'd tried to tell Dad the harvesters smelled bad and made the thomases skittish, had tried to tell him the new garage was too close to the corral. In fact, she'd chosen the site for the harvester garage herself, a plot of land across the Old North Road, leeward of the thomas barn. She'd tried to tell the contractor he was building in the wrong place, but…

Mr. Fletcher emerged from the thomas barn, bearing a saddle on his shoulder and a bridle in the opposite hand. He dropped them in front of the corral gate and went to his truck. He retrieved his lunch pail from the cab and sat on the tailgate.

"Hard work is fascinating, isn't it, mistress?" Mrs. Ramanujan leaned on her dust mop and peered around Milly's elbow.

"Sure is," Milly said. "I could sit and watch it for hours."

"It's going to be a hot day, Miss Millicent. You really should change into something more comfortable. Your new dress, perhaps?"

"Yes. I think I'd like that."

"I'll have it laid out for you momentarily." The housekeeper leaned the mop against the window frame. She stopped at the bedroom door. "You know, mistress, I'm quite certain Mr. Fletcher would gladly accept a glass of lemonade." A conspiratorial smile played around the corners of the stocky housekeeper's mouth and was suppressed, but lingered in the crow's feet at the corners of her dark brown eyes.

"You know, Mrs. Ramanujan," Milly said, "I do believe you're right."

---

At the back door, Milly hesitated on the concrete steps. A dust cloud rolled over the yard, and though it obscured her view of the thomas corral, the unmistakable sounds of animal anger came through the dry miasma loud and clear. She waited for the cloud to pass and walked to the corral fence, shielding the wet glass in her hand as best she could. In his hands Mr. Fletcher held leather reins, at the other end of which was a training harness. Within the harness, Hildegard, youngest of last year's hatchlings, struggled to escape. Mr. Fletcher relaxed the tension in the reins and let the harness slip from Hildegard's neck.

"Easy," he said. "Easy, girl." He lowered himself onto one knee, slipped off his glove and raised his bare hand, palm outward. "It's just me, sweetheart. You know me, don't you? Sure you do."

Hildegard tossed her head and grunted. She approached Mr. Fletcher, bent her head to his hand. Her nostrils flared, and the rumble in her throat was full of suspicion. This wasn't the first time he'd tried to bridle her, and there was nothing wrong with Hildy's memory. But the thomas nuzzled Mr. Fletcher's fingers, and flicked her tongue across his palm.

"There, there," he said. "That's a good girl." With the other hand he dragged the bridle and harness toward him. "Now, we're just going to give it another try, okay? Just one more little try, so hold still." He raised the harness onto his knee. "This won't hurt a bit, sweetheart, and I'll respect you in the morning, I promise…"

Milly jumped at the touch of something cold. A drop of condensation had dribbled off the glass and onto bare skin. Dad had often said a yearling thomas, male or female, should be seduced with sweet nothings rather than broken with brute force, but she wondered if wranglers were required to be so…explicit.

Mr. Fletcher hoisted the harness onto Hildegard's neck. The thomas backed away, thrashing her head from side to side. Mr. Fletcher tightened the reins, cinching the harness. Cords stood out on his neck, his muscles strained at his shirt. His eyes were locked onto the thomas's, a direct challenge Hildegard would have to learn to endure. A minute later it was plain to Milly that the struggle had reached an impasse. Mr. Fletcher and Hildegard were breathing hard and deeply, but neither showed any inclination to relent. Mr. Fletcher dug his boot heels into the earth, careful to dodge the fresh pats Hildy had left for him.

Milly stared, fascinated. The struggle could go on for hours at a time, and could take months. Even then, there was no guarantee the animal could be broken—

"Mr. Fletcher?"

"Miss Thompson—" Mr. Fletcher gave a loud cry as Hildegard caught him off guard and snapped her neck like a whip. Her wrangler and tormentor pitched forward onto the ground. He coughed, pushed himself up, and made a face at the malodorous brown smear on his shirt. Hildegard shook off the harness and grunted in rapid bursts.

"Oh! Mr. Fletcher, I'm sorry…I'm so so-sorry…" Milly joined the triumphant yearling in her laughter.

Mr. Fletcher gaped at her, swept off his hat, searched the heavens for mercy and, finding none, leaned on his knees, laughing in surrender.

Milly opened the corral gate for him. "I'm really very sorry, Mr. Fletcher," she said. "Please don't be angry with me."

Mr. Fletcher washed his hands under the cold stream from the yard pump. "Not at all, Miss Thompson," he said, and dried his hands on his jeans. "Happens a lot in my line of work." He arched his back, spread his arms for a luxuriant stretch. "I'm guessing—hoping—that glass of lemonade is for me."

Milly extended the glass. Mr. Fletcher took it and drained it in one long drink.

"Ah, that hit the spot," he said, and gave it back. "Thank you, Miss Thompson." He turned and walked toward his weather-beaten truck.

"Oh, wait!"

Mr. Fletcher stopped. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Um," she said, "That is, wouldn't you—will you let me wash your shirt for you?"

The wrangler and handyman smiled. Milly's head went light. "No need, ma'am," he said. "I have a clean shirt in my truck. Several, in fact. I usually just throw one away when something like this happens."

"Are you sure, Mr. Fletcher? Please, I can have your shirt washed in just a few minutes and in this heat it won't take long to dry, you don't want to throw away a perfectly clean shirt do you? Please?"

Mr. Fletcher hesitated, then unbuttoned his unfortunate shirt. Perspiration shone on his browned skin, glistened on the curly black hair of his chest. Milly had never known many blacksmiths, Eleanor included, but she was certain none of them, Eleanor included, could beat this man in any contest of strength one could imagine.

Milly's head threatened to detach itself from her neck and float away. What a hard worker he is, she thought, and took the soiled garment from his hand.

"Miss Thompson, I'll, um—" Mr. Fletcher jerked his thumb at his truck. "I'll just get that clean shirt to wear for the time being, if—if you don't mind, that is."

"Oh. Yes, Mr. Fletcher, of course. Please go ahead." She watched him walk to his truck. The two suns, near their maximum distance from each other, stared like fiery eyes at the world.

Inside she kicked off her sandals and handed the shirt to Mrs. Ramanujan, who carried it to the laundry at arm's length. Milly left the empty glass on the kitchen counter nearest the door. In the living room Milly flopped onto the sofa, pulled up her skirt to let the ceiling fans cool her legs. She unlaced her dress and loosened the knot on her bustier. Now she could scratch that horrible itch under her left breast.

"Not the most dignified pose I've ever seen, Miss Millicent." Mrs. Turnipseed extended a glass of iced barley tea. "But I suppose this is no time for dignity."

Milly sat up, retied her dress. She drew the hem over her legs as far as she could, to the tops of her knees.

"You just mind your own business," she said, and accepted the glass. "It's hot today, that's all."

"As you say, mistress." Mrs. Turnipseed turned to go, then stopped. "My apologies for speaking out of turn. The lady of the house is hardly interested in what I think." Mrs. Turnipseed resumed her course for the kitchen.

Snooty old witch, Milly thought. Sure, the dress was a little more revealing than her others, hemline a little higher, waist a little tighter. She'd been willing to settle for something off the rack but Mom, through Mrs. Ramanujan, had insisted on having it hand-fitted and handmade right there in the house. For once, Milly hadn't resisted being fussed over. The look on Mr. Fletcher's face had made the whole ordeal worth the trouble.

Milly finished her tea, went to the laundry room upstairs and found it empty. A shirt hung from the clothesline outside the window. She reeled it in and folded it. She lifted it to her nose, and smelled nothing but sunlight and fresh air. She listened, and heard nothing but the groan and sigh of the water pumps drawing their life-giving wealth from the planet.

Later, when the leading sun was grazing the horizon, Milly approached Mr. Fletcher, who had the hood of his truck open and was peering into the engine well. She hoped he wouldn't hate her for this, too.

"Mr. Fletcher?"

As she expected, the startled man jerked upright to hit his head on the hood. He turned, smiling and rubbing his head. "Yes, Miss Thompson?"

Milly held out the shirt. "I was wondering if, before you go, you could do me a favor?"

---

Mr. Fletcher set the oilcan on the porch railing. "Try it now."

Milly pushed off with bare feet. The chains made no sound.

"Thank you, Mr. Fletcher," she said, and stopped the swing. The thomas rancher's son swept off his hat, moved to wipe his brow on his sleeve, and stopped. He sat on the swing, and Milly set it rocking at a slow, comfortable pace.

Mrs. Turnipseed emerged from the house, bearing a tray with two tall glasses. Milly didn't care much for lemonade, but she decided as long as this man wanted to keep her company, she would share his thirst for it. Mrs. Turnipseed gave them the glasses, and with a backward glance went back into the house, looking as if she'd sucked the juice out of a lemon.

Snooty old witch. Milly lifted her feet, and while Mr. Fletcher kept up the rhythm she let the north wind coming off the fallow whipgrass fields cool her face and neck. The fresh scents of life and moisture filled her nostrils. Dad had suggested to her that it was time to cut down the native grass and get the field ready for the next planting season.

Mr. Fletcher drained his glass, rolled it over his forehead. "Hot today."

"Sure was." The breeze played over Milly's bare legs. She shivered.

"Oh, by the way, ma'am, I'll have your bedroom window replaced by early Monday. Or I can stay late and replace it tonight, if you like."

Milly sipped her lemonade, suppressed a grimace at the sour taste. Had Mrs. Turnipseed left out the sugar? "No, that won't be necessary. I wouldn't want to keep you too late, not on a Friday afternoon."

"Have to stay late, anyway. The old truck is running hot, think my radiator hose has developed a leak. I may have to pull it out and—" He looked at a spot between his feet. "You know, patch it, or even replace it."

"Of course, Mr. Fletcher. When hoses get stiff, they need to be replaced with more flexible ones." Milly copied his gesture. "You take whatever time and water you need."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

Milly took another drink, peered at her thomas wrangler above the rim of her glass. He was looking straight ahead and his hands were wrapped around his own glass so tightly she expected it to explode into fragments any second. But his legs kept the swing in a gentle rock that kept time with the swaying grass.

The Fletchers have been raising and wrangling thomases in the Canberra Territory for eighty years, Mom had told her a few days after Mr. Fletcher had been hired. Their farming stock was prized for its strength and endurance and sturdiness, and their racing stock for its speed and attractive lines. Mom had gone on to repeat a dirty joke about how the first Fletcher, a man of legendary looks and strength and appetite who, after a lost bet, had "shared" those characteristics with the thomas species, and as embarrassed as Milly had been then she had to agree those qualities were strong in his (human) ancestors. One in particular.

"Mr. Fletcher," she said, "I was wondering if you might do me another favor, before you go."

"Of course, Miss Thompson. Anything. Well, that is, you know…within reason."

Milly stopped the swing and scooted closer. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind calling me Milly, from now on." She resumed swinging.

"Milly," Mr. Fletcher said, and smiled as if his pleasure would illuminate the whole world. "That's a pretty name, Milly."

Milly felt her heart skip a beat. "Short for Millicent," she said, and locked her gaze onto the distant hillock above her favorite spot. Short for Millicent. Nice going, Milly.

The evening progressed in silence. Milly saw no need to embarrass herself any further, and was content to enjoy the breeze that had cooled with the setting of the first sun. The whipgrass bowed and straightened, and every now and then a sharp gust would shake off a cloud of pollen that would vanish among the leathery green stalks thomas wranglers and rope makers prized for their tensile strength and flexibility. She had said to Dad everything she'd said to Meryl on that afternoon at Meryl's homestead, and that it was too soon to raze the grass, too much to force virgin land to accept artificial fertilizers. And sending those whirling metal monsters into that rich living field, to knife the soil with plow and harrow before it was ready—it was like rape. No, not like. It was rape, and she'd threatened to throw herself in front of the harvesters to make them stop. Dad's cross response had been a razor blade drawn across her heart but he had relented. She was in charge.

Mr. Fletcher stopped the swing, and scooted closer. He leaned toward her.

"Thank you for the lemonade, Milly short for Millicent. And for your company."

"You're welcome." The sound of her name on his lips made her wonder what it would taste like.

Mr. Fletcher put his glass on the porch railing and stood. He pulled on his hat, leaving a lock of curly black hair dangling on his forehead, and picked up the oilcan.

"I'd better tend to my truck," he said. "Otherwise, I might not make it home before dark."

What a tragedy that would be, Milly thought. She could flatten his tires, or maybe rearrange some of those wire doohickeys on the engine—

"And I'll tend to your window first thing Monday morning." Mr. Fletcher stopped at the front door. Again, his smile seemed to push back the encroaching night. "I'll take it kindly, Milly, if you call me Nick from now on."

"Nick?"

He nodded. "Nick. Short for Nicholas. Good night, Milly." He disappeared into the house.

Milly pushed backward, lifted her feet. Nick. Short for Nicholas. Had she known someone by that name? Impossible to think straight, with all the frustration in her stomach and the fire in her veins, unquenched by that snooty old witch's bitter lemonade. Maybe one day real soon I'll flatten your tires and rip the wires out of your engine both, Nick short for Nicholas, and then we'll take a picnic basket, ride thomases through the grass to my favorite spot, away from all the noise and family, and we'll eat sandwiches and drink coffee and you'll spread your overcoat and start kissing my neck and I'll find out exactly what my name tastes like

_Thinking of two-timing me already, Milly?_

In the swaying grass Milly thinks she sees a red spark, probably just sunlight reflected from a piece of quartz but the hand that holds it is pale, so pale, and she can imagine the clouds on the wind are not puffs of pollen but cigarette smoke

_You can't let me go._

I already have do you hear me I already have

_I came back for you. I told you I would._

Liar I waited for you liar but you never came back I waited and waited and waited

_I've come back. Now we'll be together._

No go away please just leave me alone

_Together forever_

Milly gasped and lifted her head. Her grip on her glass had relaxed, dribbling Mrs. Turnipseed's awful sour lemonade down her legs. Had she slept? A dream. That's all it was. A bad bad sad dream.

Milly moved to set her glass on the railing, but missed. The glass shattered on the golden wood. Tomorrow she would tell the field foreman to begin clearing the whipgrass in the north fields.

---

Afterword

(Two projects, a raise, a handful of minor life upheavals and two marathon sessions of "Kingdom Hearts" later…)

Hello again! To those of you who are still reading (not many at this point, I'll bet), I apologize. I wish I'd started writing fan fiction about fifteen years earlier, before I got all married and responsible and stuff. But I'm still writing, and that's the important thing. To me, anyway.

Next: Pandora's Box. Elizabeth learns that it's possible to have too much knowledge. See you then!


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